Thu'um of A Distant Utopia
by Delusional Fishies
Summary: Without any sense of self, she is tossed through the void and taken by Akatosh. Here in this creation, she will carve for herself an Empire.
1. Chapter 1

**Thu'um of A Distant Utopia**

The first part of her body that gained any sense was her head. It woke her easily with pain. It was only moments later that she realized that this pain was just an echo of the cries of every other part of her body. Everything hurt and the world was pain. The ringing, ever-present sense of pain did not leave her as she forced herself to stay conscious—lest her body gave in and she fainted again. What was the last thing that happened to her?

The first thing she heard was the sound of horses, the rhyme of wagon wheels on paved roads, and the clanks of chains. These were not the paved roads she had gotten used to so well in the last few days. No, these are like the old roads of a time long since passed… right? Questions raced through her foggy mind, piercing even the paralyzing pain that coursed through every part of her body. Why are there wagons—and so many of them? Where was she and what happened?

She tried to open her eyes, but it was as if she had never seen the sun before in her life. The light nearly blinded her, even as she blinked away the fresh tears that appeared at the corners of her eyes. Everything was blurred and the man in front of her… the men beside her… everyone was… dirty? Muddy? She noted that her body's comfortable shaking was actually induced by the wagon she was on.

In that instant her eyes opened enough, merely seconds after she had accommodated to the light, her pupils darted left and right. She searched for something, anything, to be a sign. She wanted to know what happened. She wanted to know where she was. She even wanted to question if she was still herself.

The wagon was small. No, it was tiny, enough to fit only four people, including her. From what she could see, each of the drivers of these numerous wagons was a man in uniform. Are they guards? They seem to be wearing the same attire as the legionnaires, or close enough to be mistaken for those Roman forebears who built the Wall.

Her three neighbors were obviously from all walks of life, even in this confusing scenario. The man across from her must be a career soldier, or failing that, he could have easily qualified for one of any kingdom's infantry.

The boy beside him was an urchin, thin from malnutrition. Even with her sight impaired, she could see still the fear evident in his eyes. The bags under his eyes showed a distant, resigned boy. He looked more like a man certain to die this day than a boy his age.

Beside her sat… a lord? He looked the part of a leader, perhaps because the furs he wore? She could not be certain. But strangely enough, he was not only bound by wrists and ankles, but also gagged as tightly as she could see. He seemed be… sad? Regretting something…

Regret…

Regret was and would always be her closest companion. Just as every part of her hurt, her heart ached with regret so much that it blinded her of all other pain.

The air was chilly enough that she could see her breath. Only when she noticed the ice around her, did she realize the goose bumps that rose on her skin. All around her, the environment was a harsh, snowy tundra. Everything in her limited sight was wintery, but the opposite of a wonderland.

She had no time to think; a voice interrupted her thoughts, as chaotic and foggy as they were. It was an unfamiliar tone and accent, but she knew enough from the sounds of her past battles. The accent alone was enough to cause goose bumps to rise. It was a Nordic accent, one that was often used by the invaders of her homeland, "Hey, you. You're finally awake."

She allowed the shaking of the cart to nod her head. Every muscle in her body ached. Her neck was no different. Even attempting to look up and into the eyes across from her was painful. The pain was magical by nature, because nothing could cause her senses to flare this way except for the most dangerous magic…

The other man took her silence for confirmation, so he continued on without pause, "You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into an Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

So the urchin was a thief? She couldn't even bring herself to care anymore. Everything felt so heavy. The burdens she carried… why did she ever want to care? But of course, the word thief was thrown like an insult—to which the boy responded predictably.

"Damn you, Stormcloaks," he spat coldly, but without much conviction or venom. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell."

Imperials.

Stormcloaks.

Empire.

Skyrim.

Hammerfell.

These were foreign names to her, puzzling her and peaking her curiosity. Perhaps were she not bounded in irons in a strange land she could not recognize, she might not have been so interested. But the reality of her situation was evident to even her clouded mind.

So she willed her ears to be attentive, despite the distractions of the receding pain.

"You there," the thief spoke to her, "you shouldn't be here either, it's these Stormcloaks that the Imperials want."

Again, the words Imperials and Stormcloaks were used. Even an idiot could tell from these few words that they are opposing factions in some kind of dispute. She didn't answer the thief. She didn't bother. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if it was because there was a shred of her lasting morality remaining within her or perhaps she had always found thieves to be disdainful. Or perhaps she just didn't want to muster the effort to reply?

It mattered little, because the 'Stormcloak' soldier sitting across from her answered again, in the same mild-mannered and good-humored tone, "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

But that was too loud for the soldiers, who all looked like they had been out camping for weeks. Or months, she did not know. But they had no tolerance for good humor, because one of these 'Imperials' yelled, "Shut up back there!"

The thief frowned and looked away from the Stormcloak soldier. She could see that he did not want to talk to the calm man, because that calm unnerved him. He turned to the lord in furs and muttered softly, "What's wrong with him, eh?"

"Watch your tongue," the Stormcloak interrupted immediately. All facades of his calm evaporated into the cold, harsh winter around him. "You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

The thief's eyes widened in shock, "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion…" His voice died in his throat, fear constricting his mind. She saw it clearly, just as she had seen it thousands of times before, the fear of inevitable death. "I-If they had captured you…? Oh gods! Where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going," the Stormcloak soldier seemed to smirk tiredly. "But Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde. Windhelm…

She saw what was going on well enough already from this conversation, but none of this touched upon anything in her memories of history or from all her trails at the beckoning of the Grail. Her curiosity to understand her location grew. Where was she truthfully?

The snowy tundra had cleared somewhere along this road, enough for her to see green pines half-buried in snow. These men all thought they were headed towards an execution. They were all prepared to die this day. Death… another of her companions besides Regret… could she never escape them?

"No, this can't be happening," the thief denied, despite all the evidence otherwise. "This isn't happening."

Panic. Sweet, ugly panic filled the boy-thief's visage.

The cold sweat that rolled down his mud-crusted cheeks was disgusting, she thought. Even such fear was pathetic. She wanted to sneer, to scold this boy, but she couldn't. Where she used to have a well of energy like that of an ocean, all she had now was a dried-up lake. Even keeping her eyes open was an act taxing her reserves greatly. So she kept her lips sealed, with little else to do but that.

"Hey, which village are you from, horse thief?" The soldier attempted to calm the boy down.

The boy turned to the soldier, "Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," the soldier answered tiredly. There was something comforting in his words… for the boy. For her, the soldier's words were distant. They were the words of the common man. The people… that she was never part of. She hated that.

"Rorikstead…" The thief answered, "I'm from Rorikstead."

Before either of them could say anything, and before she could ask a single question, one of the soldiers at the front of this band of wagons called out, "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

The headsman… that is someone she knew well enough. A headsman meant that she truly is going towards an execution.

"Good," one of the horsemen ahead drawled. "Let's get this over with."

Did she want to die?

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!" The thief prayed to his gods now with a voice full of urgency. She could not recognize a single one of those names. The curiosity and confusion continued to build and pile up. Was there a reason for her to be here?

Did she wish to die?

They were entering a village. It was small, though as they passed the gates, she saw the most peculiar of sights. On horse and in golden armor stood several… beings. They could not possibly be humans, but they were not so strange that they must be spirits of some kind either. Their skin was pale and yellow, a sickly coloration. Her sight had cleared up enough by now that she could see their expressions clearly. They were all plotting and brooding, causing her to force herself to hold back a frown. The soldier seemed to also hold them in contempt.

Thalmor.

Damned Elves.

These were words spoken by the calm soldier before her, with utter loathing.

She did not recognize the first, but it could be a faction to which these pointed eared humanoids belonged to. She frowned mentally as she added another name to the increasingly complicated situation that she had landed in.

As they neared what looked like a headsman's block, she tuned out the sounds of her neighbors. Many questions flowed through her mind. Why was she here? What was the purpose of all this?

But most importantly, after the last few days of her own memory… what did she even desire anymore?

Soon, the Imperials called them off the cart.

It felt like a lifetime ago that she had stood up or even used her leg muscles. Perhaps it has been a lifetime, or several dozen lifetimes. She had no way of knowing. The Grail which she relied on so much was silent. There was nothing guiding her, not even a Master to give her a command. There was nothing binding her here.

_So why was she here?_ She roared in her mind, burning with frustration, ignoring the legate who called for her to exit the cart-wagon. _She has no purpose_. Why…?

…It…

One of the soldiers poked her with the point of a spear, the prick startling her into rising. She blinked and looked down at herself, seeing only rags. Had she fallen so low that she could not even call her armor to herself? She had nothing left! No ideals, no hopes, no dreams, no allies, no family, no friends, no mentors, no masters, no knights, no children—nothing!

…It was…

It seemed as if she was going to just fall on her knees right there, still on the edge of the cart, but somehow, she lifted her feet and jumped off. The scrape of her soles against the cold, frozen ground caused her to shiver. It hurt. The pain of her delicate, alabaster skin against the dirt beneath her…

…It was as if she was human…

…That should not be possible.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but the Imperial legionnaires ignored it completely. Though the man seemed gentler, he still did not protest as his superior sentenced her to death, just for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He sighed and looked at her apologetically, but she looked passed him. So he asked of her, "What is your name, Miss?"

"Arturia," her frosty voice returned. It sounded like a growl and her throat needed clearing. She felt as if she had not used her own voice in a millennium. But even with such abused and unused voice, the sound of her speaking carried across the field and throughout the village. It was the disposition of a King; all eyes turned to her, captivated by the raw charisma and power that her mere whispers carried.

She may have taken note of it, but she gave no outer reaction. She carried herself straight, more out of habit than anything else. But she had her unfaltering, unregretful pride. For that, she would stand straight and regal, and speak once more, "Arturia Pendragon."

* * *

><p>Bound and strained to the limits of her powers, she could not resist the rough shove of the legate. Her face heated in shame, for her to be forced to kneel by the common rabble was <em>insulting<em>. While she never subscribed to the King of Hero's letter of treatment for the regular soldier, she still had her dignity. A rage burned within her, for the roughness of the push, for the bleeding scrape her knees suffered, and for that insolent, gloved hand that pressed her cheek against the headsman's block. To dare force her into death this way… for her to die in this manner…!

—And then, for a single moment, all was silent.

All thoughts along the lines of her reasons for being were dissipated. The thoughts of being here, for her, for being alive… all that was left were her reactions to battle. For that single moment of clear thought, burning into her mind with a fiery rage that she found hard to contain, the world shook. Its skies shook in fear of a ravager's shout and its earth responded with a soft, subtle tremble.

The people around her, the headsman, the soldiers, and the soon-to-be-dead all peered around. But only she knew that sound. It was a familiar battle cry of a phantasmal beast that raped her lands for many years. This species that she had though wiped from the land—

She saw it—him—first. Before any of the others, who still cried in fear and still wondered at what fantastical doom approached.

Piercing through the clouds from above the sights of these common soldiers, a spiked dragon of enormous size crashed down upon the tower overlooking the execution field. It was mighty and deadly, with the spikes growing grotesquely out of its wings cutting the stone and mortar, shattering that which it stood upon.

Still they did not see… they did not believe.

In that instant yet to pass, she heard the fearful cries of the soldiers around her. The sentries cried out, "What in the Eight is that?" While even the civilians who had come to see this gruesome event shouted and pointed.

It had not dawned upon them that they were in the last moments of their lives. But when it finally dawned, it dawned in fire, from the dragon's very mouth, "YOL… TOOR… SHUL!"

The inferno of his breath shot about wildly. Like hot napalm, each splatter of that fiery dragon breath melted all it came in contact with. Stone melted to black glass, steel shattered and exploded on contact, and wood simply ceased to exist.

He announced himself like a king of dragons, even as the heat washed about her. The heat was warm, cleansing her of the grime caked on her. This black mud of dark curses roasted and flaked off of her skin as the black dragon above her roared, announcing his arrival into the world, "ZU'U ALDUIN. ZOK SAHROT DO NAAN KO LEIN!"

Somehow… in some arcane way, she found she could understand him. At least, she knew his name now. He was Alduin, the World Eater.

She smirked darkly. Was this her purpose here?

As she stood, wobbling and skin still hot from that dragon's inferno, she felt someone tug her elbow. It was the calm Stormcloak Soldier, who yelled over the sounds of battle and death, "Come on! Don't stand around and wait for death, prisoner!"

Her strength had been seeping back into her body slowly, but she was still in no position to protest or resist. The soldier pushed her into a tower as quickly as she could, where she saw several soldiers huddled around with that other man, Ulfric Stormcloak.

She shut her eyes tightly, almost daring herself to savor the death cries of those who had tried to condemn her to death.

"Is… is this truly happening?" The soldier asked Ulfric, "Is that truly a legend come to life?"

"Legends do not bring death on wings," his leader replied, "I don't know what that is, but it is an opportunity for us to escape. We will regroup at Windhelm."

Escape…?

ESCAPE…?

The burn of indignation erupted a hundred fold in her heart. Be it man or beast, she would not turn her back upon it. She may not be fit to be knight anymore, but she would never forsake her dignity. She found the anger good. She welcomed the well of power that flowed into her with this madness.

With this sudden renewal of her strength, she opened her eyes once more. The spark of burning desire lit in her eyes. She smiled grimly.

The soldier looked down at her in confusion, "Come on, Lass! This is no time to daydream!" He cried, trying to pull her. He found her to be unmovable, adamant like a mountain.

And he was right.

She clenched her fists in that same grim spirit and pulled them apart. The iron links of the chains that held her wrists together broke, being no match for her deceptively thin arms. Even the men around her began to see her in a different light. It was not because the dragon's fire which burned away the dirt that sullied her skin and charred the rags she wore, revealing her almost ethereal beauty. It was not the rage in her heart which tore the bindings off her wrists…

…it was the power that radiated from her very being.

She looked down at one of the dead soldiers laid about on the ground. He still gripped his sword in death. But while the dead had little need for material goods, the living still needed their weapons. She liberated the soldier of his sword and her grim smile grew.

"How ironic and fitting that I use a sword," she whispered huskily. She desired battle. She turned to the other men, who watched her spellbound. "Go, I will follow."

Eventually.

As the men all snapped out of their stupor and scrambled to save their own lives, she twirled the sword in her hands. After such a long time as something inhuman, it felt good to be holding a regular sword.

The worn leather strips that ran down the grip were not perfect. They were loose and close to falling apart. But she was tired of perfection. She knew she was not that.

So she would thrive in her imperfection.

She kicked open the door of the tower. While a moment ago, the door would have encumbered her with splinters in the bottom of her feet, now it simply shattered. Power burned in her veins, reinforcing her will and fueling her spirit.

She charged out, into a smoldering wreck that was once a village.

The buildings around her were all destroyed and in pieces. There were a few scattered pieces of resistance. A few mages were shooting gouts of flames and balls of heated death at the dragon circling above, most of them failing to hit anything. The archers fared little better, as the dragon was simply too fast and swooped down too quickly, picking them off by the dozens. He occasionally took to the skies, only to rain fire upon any who tried to escape.

The very sky seemed like it was burning.

Everything around her was ruined, yet all she could hear was the drums of war. The heat of battle surrounded her. As she gathered her power from the ocean within her, she noticed she could not even summon her armor. But it didn't matter.

A rush of wind surrounded her, like an untamable aura. She leaped forward utilizing her supernatural agility. In a few quick, well-placed steps, she was at the top of a burning mead hall that was littered with holes. At the very edge of the roof and balanced on a single corner, she scanned the meager town.

As soon as the dragon swooped down, about to land amidst the largest concentration of soldiers still alive and active, she flew, leaving a wild torrent in her wake that demolished the already wrecked building. The wood beneath her feet shattered from the force of her steps.

To the soldiers still alive, it looked as if this half-naked _girl_ had just leaped into the air and stepped on the very sky above them and landed on the dragon's neck. She mounted it, evading the many spikes of the dragon's scales and found a foot hold.

Alduin noticed her the moment she landed, and roared in indignation at her insult. To use him as a mere mount! He roared in fury, "NIVAHRIIN JOORRE!" It was an ancient and terrible language that shook the men in their very hearts.

She held firm and gathered her power into her hands. The whirlwinds of power surrounded her, tossing her golden locks about, even as Alduin thrashed beneath her feet. Like a warrior queen of the ancient past, she took her sword into both hands. More winds gathered at unfathomable speed. The razor sharpness of the air cut even those nearby and the howling of her furious airs was deafening.

Her sword struck true—between the scaly armor of the World Eater, the point of her sword stabbed in but only inches.

But it was enough to further enrage the beast, who roared such a cry that those nearby bled from their ears.

Yet she still held on.

Relentless in his rage, Alduin snapped up and shot to the skies. He spiraled into the clouds so fast that it knocked the air out of her lungs.

But she did not let go of the beast, using its spikes as foothold. She grabbed one of its larger spikes along its spine and gripped tightly as she stabbed again and again with all her might. But even as she did so, the dragon seemed to be healing faster and his skin harder with each second—faster than she could damage it.

Alduin twisted and turned, now furious yet his efforts seemed a little more desperate than before. He dove into the tree tops. The pine and irritating flora would never pierce his thick hide, but surely they would brush this pest off?

She never let go.

Even as Alduin spat dragon fires upon the thickest trees and flew right into them, she did not let go. She only kept chipping away at his hide, even as her sword began to melt and chip away.

But finally, the sword snapped. Its metal was too weak to withstand the titanic struggle between the two powers.

Alduin did not notice, thinking that she was still stabbing away.

He noticed the town once more, and swooped down. The world shook and the air cried as he sped down, breaking speeds faster than sound itself. At the last moment before he smashed into the ground, he turned, instead smashing her into the mortal soldiers below speeds several times faster than sound.

Her eyes widened; her fury was not limitless. Her reserve of power which had returned over the time had been drained far quicker than she had anticipated.

He roared in triumph as he felt her fall, her grip loosened by the blood of many men.

She was treated to a shower of gore and bone, steel and leather, as she tumbled and rolled falling and smashing into the ruins beneath. The roof of the building she had landed on crumbled beneath her feet and she fell through the floors. Still drenched in blood, she watched as the dragon flew up and devoured the men she could not reach; she watched as it escaped her.

Taking to the skies once more, Alduin rained fire down in contempt and victory, "DIR KO MAAR!"

Helpless and trapped, with only an ounce of her strength left in her body, burning furiously to keep her standing, she took a moment to catch her breath. It was still strange to her: how human her body seems. She needed to breathe. When was the last time she was so restricted by human boundaries?

She had little time to think, as the Stormcloak Soldier and the Imperial Soldier both charged into the room, swords raised and spirits blazing.

They both turned to her. She saw the turmoil of emotions in their expressions. She saw their surprise, curiosity and fear, but then they turned to each other and back at her. They held their subordinates back in this uneasy situation where they circled each other with her in the center.

She tossed the broken sword from her hands as she crossed her arms. It was useless to her now. "Really? With a dragon flying over your heads?" She asked, with what little sarcasm and distaste she could muster. With the least movements and effort, she shot between the men and knocked their weapons out of their hands. "Pick your battles carefully," she scolded, "There is no honor in fighting here."

Is it wrong that she felt a warm, familiar tingle in her heart when she saw all four men shuffle their feet in embarrassment? She hoped not; she hid a smirk as she found herself a leader of men once more.

* * *

><p>For some inane reason—perhaps the posturing that males are wont to do—the soldiers before her thought to introduce themselves to her. And as soldiers of opposing sides, their introductions were cut short by their hatred for the other side. Before she could command anything of them, the Stormcloak Soldier and the Imperial Soldier both stepped up at the same time, trying to be the one to take command of the situation. As if they were thinking the same things, and were equally disrespectful of each other, they spoke at the same time.<p>

"I'm Ralof of the—"

"Madam, I am Hadvar—"

They paused and frowned at each other, growling and daring the other to try interrupting again. At the same time, the two other soldiers who followed them also tried to speak up. Yet before another word could be uttered, the entire keep shuddered as the ground they stood upon trembled yet again. It was as if the dragon had power over the very elements of the world, forcing them to bend to his will—all to destroy… something.

She suppressed a short-lived urge to roll her eyes and sighed audibly despite the situation. Rather than waiting around and listening to these soldiers try to outdo each other in importance, she did not what to hear from any of them at all. In truth, the condition of her body was dire; only her willpower was keeping her even standing.

She had taken a peek down at her hands earlier. While she did not suffer from the dragon's magical, infernal breath, her left hand was practically ruined. She had tried to hold on to the dragon's spinal spikes while he had flown at speeds faster than sound. A voice at the back of her mind questioned this, as it should be something that she shouldn't suffer so terribly from. But the reality of her situation was staring up at her in the form of a bloody, nearly-mangled hand. The pain in this entire limb was so great that she could not even feel anything passed her elbow; she hoped she would not regain her sense of pain so soon either, because it would probably cause her mind to overload.

Hiding her injury from the group, she interrupted them by running ahead. Hopefully, their sense of life-preservation would cause them to follow, but she felt only empty emotions towards them. They were just random faces she had met today. It was as if she felt no obligation or duty to compel her to protect them. But then, why was she waiting for them, a few steps away? She growled to herself silently and pushed such thoughts away.

She quickly vocalized what she felt, "Well? Are you going to puff your chests at each other or are you going to follow me? We don't have all day to watch you two get dirty and sweaty wrestling each other! Get a move on it, soldiers!"

A bit of her past self flowed through her voice as she spoke, though she did not care what truly drove these men to shut up and follow her quietly. She could not feel any binding or support from any wish-making devices anymore—nothing to boost her abilities or to take others away. Certainly, this must have been her natural charisma. Had she always had a way with commanding men? It's too bad her previous Master never did pay attention to her warnings…

"Damn! The entire hold is coming down on us…!" The Imperial Soldier, Hadvar, cursed as the bricks and mortar fell around them. "We have to get down now!"

"The building is collapsing and you're saying we have to go below it? No wonder you Imperials can't get anywhere in the war," Ralof the Stormcloak Soldier mocked. A single glare from her caused him to stop his mocking, but he went on to mutter, "Well, let's get on with it and look at _this_ side of the Empire, eh? Torture chambers…"

They rushed down the steps, just fast enough to dodge the collapsing pieces of the keep. The walls and ceiling behind them melted like butter as they passed, forcing them forward and leaving no other route for them to take. It was a desperate sprint to safety, because if they stumbled for even a single second, the molten rocks would have splattered their skulls all over the keep's floors.

As they went down another floor into the dungeons, the shaking and the terror subsided greatly. In fact, those down there probably did not even know of what was occurring above, from the looks of it. Everything seemed intact—

—But that was just an illusion. The moment she pushed through the heavy, reinforced doors, she saw four more soldiers fighting amongst each other.

They were not just in the dungeons. Much to her disgust, they were in the middle of large torture chamber. The design was medieval, with skeletons both hanging from the walls and locked in cages. The smell of blood, urine, feces and a mix of all bodily liquids in between assaulted their nostrils as they entered the room. It was dimly lit by candle light, which only reinforced the repulsiveness of the room.

Behind her, she heard Ralof spit on the ground in revulsion. "So this is the Empire, I see," he muttered under his breath.

Two of the soldiers fighting within were wearing the Imperial colors of brown leather and royal scarlet, while the other two were donned in the same blue uniform as Ralof. From the looks of it, their brawl was in a stalemate. Each was interlocked in relatively equal combat with another.

"Stop fighting!" Hadvar shouted beside her, "You're all going to die if you keep this up!"

The urgency in his voice was completely ignored, but it was enough to cause those within to pause. Their interruption caused the four to stop in their conflict, but not a single one of them lowered their weapons.

The older Imperial Soldier was a bald, suspicious man. His wrinkled expression darkened with rage as he saw the group that had just arrived. He sneered and grunted his snide remarks in a sharp, high-pitched tone, "And what have we here? A group of deserters led by a half naked girl-child? Do you really think I'll let you—"

She slapped him.

"Wuh-what was…" The torturer stumbled from the force of her blow and cupped his injured cheek.

Before he could utter another sound, she brought her good hand around for a resounding back hand that sent the old soldier spinning again. He spun a few steps backwards before he could even find his footing and lean against the rusting cages behind him. "Y-you…" he glared at her. His eyes were filled with surprise and fear.

"I am not one to bother with taunts like asking if you had ever even suffered pain at the hands of another, but I will ask this of you," she spoke clearly. Her voice was filled with steel and was sharp enough to cut the tension that had built in the room. With her hawk-like glare, she watched his every moment, right down his slow panting as drops of blood rolled out of his mouth. "Are you attempting to impede my path?"

The torturer grunted and righted himself angrily, "Hmph! I've never been so disrespected in my… you damned runt, I'll—"

He never could have finished his sentence as she slapped him yet again. Her loathing for people like him, people who reveled in the pain of others, was clear in her eyes. "I will not repeat myself again. Will you stand in my way?" She growled out slowly.

She knew his answer before he spoke.

She saw his instinctual reaction, where he brought hands up to defend himself. She saw his other hand, which he had hidden behind his back to reach for his sheathed and hidden knife. She saw his intention in the coiled, aged muscles of his body. And she saw the insolence in his snarl.

But he was only a mere mortal.

She was far more.

She did not know what she was anymore. Was she an immortal spirit given form or an ascended mortal chained to this world? Was she something else entirely? Whatever the case, even if he moved faster than what everyone else could see, she moved faster still.

Before he could draw his hidden blade, she stepped forward. With her lifted leg, she stomped down on his wrist, bending and cracking his bones and sinews into unnatural angles. Using her unbloodied hand, she gripped his skull, forcing him to kneel before her.

He cried in pain up at her. She did not let go, even as he struggled and pummeled her impossibly tight grip. Without any regret in her cold eyes, she pushed forward. There was enough strength in her thrust that she nearly ripped his skull off. But she didn't. She smashed his head against the iron cages once.

Just once was enough.

While no one spoke a single word, she saw the soldiers around her all wince at the sound of bone crunching against iron. The squishing, slimy sound of brains leaking out of the back of the skull was not missed by anyone either. But no one spoke against her; not when there's still a dragon loose. She was the only barrier between their current situation and conflict between the soldiers of opposing factions, itching to clash against each other.

As the torturer's body slumped down lifelessly, she turned to everyone else in the room and questioned, "Is there anyone else who doesn't want to leave to safety first? Speak up now."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Ralof coughed loudly.

She turned to him, somewhat surprised that he wanted to question her judgment, but held her hand as he cleared his throat loudly again.

"Ah… My, ah, Lady," He said awkwardly, looking at anywhere but at her. "You know… you know he had a point about something."

She stayed silent, only questioning him with her silence.

"W-well, it's just that…" He scratched the back of his head awkwardly and shifted his feet slowly, "You might want to cover up, you know? It's quite cold in Skyrim, after all."

She blinked and looked down. In the excitement, she had forgotten that she had withstood the dragon's breath several times. She did not take into account that, or it must have slipped her mind that the dirty rags she wore would not have the same tenacity. In fact, her chest was bared for the entire world to see—

A rosy blush rose from her chest, up to her neck, and settled nicely on her cheeks.

"Ah," she squeaked in an undignified manner that was completely out of character.

"Madam," Hadvar stepped in instantly, taking some robes he found in one of the cages. It was a royal blue color that reminded her of her armor and her previously preferred colors, but it would have to do. Hadvar was not looking at her either. In fact, she could only see the back of his head as he tried to hand her the robes. "You should… it is very cold, you should put something on."

"Of course," she answered coldly with as much of a deadpanned tone as she could muster. It wasn't much, and everyone in the room knew she was only acting nonchalant, but it was enough. Certainly, she could have frozen water with her voice, if not for her heated embarrassment that only grew with every second. She was sure none of them would speak of this, if they knew what was good for them.


	2. Chapter 2

If you keep saying I don't finish my stories, I really won't finish any of them.

**Thu'um of A Distant Utopia**

She sighed tiredly. As she wiped the blood from her pilfered blade, she wondered how this scenario came to be.

Her group of eight had charged down the narrow halls and tunnels into the lowest parts of the keep. She heard the sounds of battle before any of her followers. When they had finally come to the caverns beneath the keep itself, they witnessed dozens of soldiers fighting desperately in an unorganized melee. Every second, each side lost a life. Before they could interfere, half of the people within the caverns were dead.

When the fighting had finally stopped—not due to her interruption, but due to a massive cave-in—there were only three left of the group that they had come across. Two of them were Imperials and one of them was a Stormcloak. Although they grumbled and glared daggers at each other, they ran along behind her.

The threat of death by a sudden attack of falling boulders was not something anyone wanted as it seemed. As they ran deeper into the caverns, towards the sounds of running water, she thought of the senseless violence that had just occurred. There was no reason for it. People just saw each other and attacked for no reason.

It was madness.

Madness? She knew it had a place in war. In fact, she knew that insanity was a piece of the unknown crawling at the back of every person's mind. But the splattering of blood stayed in her eyes and mind. She… pitied them.

As she kept everyone at a steady pace, she felt something tickle her cheeks. She reached up with her delicate fingers and felt wetness below her eyes. At first, she thought she must have been imagining it. Then she thought perhaps it was liquid that had dripped down from the ceiling of the caves. But she knew what it was. Yet she still hoped it wasn't what she thought it was, these drops rolling down her cheeks.

She did not sniffle. She did not utter a single sound. She did not even dare blink her emerald eyes.

She did all this because wanted to deny their existence. She should not be able to cry; she can't cry.

…But she did.

This was not a story book to her. She watched these men and women die in their futile struggle. As each of the lights within their eyes dwindled into darkness, she had not turned away. It reminded her that this was not like reading numbers off a report. They were tangible proof that a bunch of scratches on a piece of paper alone could not convey the loss of lives in a war. For her to watch these soldiers die in their comrades' arms, she felt something in her emotionless mask crack. But as soon as she was shaken, she was up again.

Perhaps her followers had seen this pathetic and soft side of her or perhaps not. She didn't care. She would force herself to never regret again. Wasn't that what she had promised herself?

The group traveled silently.

Other than some minor obstacles in the form of a few spiders and a bear, they were out of the underground tunnels expediently.

As they walked into the sunlight, she felt her knees tremble. The adrenaline pumping through her body had just about worn out. Spots of spectral colors flashed in the corners of her eyes and her legs almost gave in just then. Her effort in attempting to slay the dragon earlier had taken a greater toll on her body than she had first expected. The muscles in her legs and her thighs were soft now, leaving her unable to bring about any effort to do more than walk the few steps out of the hole.

It was just as well, because the moment they exited, the echo of the roar of the dragon arced above them, causing many of the soldiers to quickly duck and hide for cover.

"Quickly, hide!" Ralof signaled to everyone behind him, as he ducked down. "I think the dragon's coming back for a second attack!"

She took this convenient time to drop beside Hadvar and Ralof behind the closest boulder she could find. If the dragon really wanted them dead, they would have died, but by now, she did not have the strength to care. The dragon flew above them, roaring its terrorizing cry and rearing its terrible head about, but in moments, it passed by.

After they could no longer hear the chilling sounds of its beating, black wings and its death call, the soldiers each came out of their own hiding places.

"It should be gone now," Hadvar muttered behind her before he tried to call her attention. "We should be safe. Look, Madam, you should come with me or head to Solitude. It's safer that way and the Imperial Legion could use a—"

"No!" Ralof interrupted the Legionnaire. He gripped her wrist and pulled her away from Hadvar as he spoke, "you should come to Windhelm! For the freedom of all of Skyrim, it is where all the true sons and daughters of the land go!"

"Bah!" Hadvar spat as he pulled on her other wrist. He glared at Ralof and both had their hands on the hilt of their swords in an instant. Neither gave ground as the argument grew in fury and the soldiers of each side readied themselves for the inevitable conflict. "You Stormcloaks are all the same, you conveniently forget that it is Empire who provides and protects Skyrim—which it has done so for hundreds of years!"

"I was in the Imperial Legion!" Ralof shouted. Their voices rose in volume with every word. It was as if the men believed that if they were louder than the other, then the other would surely see the error in their ways and bow to their superior intellect and logic. But there was no logic anymore. Since when did logic contain giant, flying lizards raining meteors down upon them? But they still argued for what they believed in. Ralof continued to yell himself hoarse, "I was there fighting for the Empire! But this isn't the Empire I fought for! Not anymore! The Empire I fought for would not give in to the demands of those damned Thalmar. The Empire I fought for would not have abandoned its greatest hero and Skyrim's favorite son, Talos."

She was too tired to speak, but she was far more annoyed by all the arguing. To her drained consciousness, all she heard was an annoying buzz, like that of several mosquitoes flying too close to her ear. She muttered in her crackling, harsh whisper, "Silence."

No one paid any attention to her now.

Despite arguing over where she should go and despite fighting over what she should think, none of the men and women would even look at her. They who had just moments ago ran together like a tight-knitted group were now shouting at each other and threatening to brandish their weapons about. They were so short-sighted and selfish, thinking of only their goals. To see how little they valued her opinion in comparison to their own…

…it annoyed her.

"Silence," she called once more, as harsh and cold as the Skyrim winds. But once again, no one heard her soft voice. In their heated debates, they had come too far. The tensions had risen too high for them to simply calm down now. And not one of them thought of what she truly wanted.

Hadvar had just retorted angrily, his eyes darting around and watching Ralof's hand on his dagger. Their argument had escalated to the point where neither was any more understandable than if they spoke in the language of fish or birds. No one shouted for reason; they only kept shouting to outshout their opponents.

"SILENCE!" She shouted. Her voice, though by far more beautiful and charismatic than any other present, was still softer than the other voices each individually. But what she lacked in volume, she made up for by pouring the last of her reserves into her power.

The wind around her called as her voice. The clouds above seemed to almost rumble along with her, despite it being a clear and sunny day. The air itself pushed all those around her away and into the ground, like an unseen pressure upon all others, forcing them to obey. It knocked the air out of their lungs and it knocked their feet off the ground. It was a force greater than anything any of them had witnessed, for there was no actual magic in this. To them, it was her power put into action.

And it frightened them.

She sighed tiredly. As she leaned against the great boulder behind her, she wondered how this situation came about. But it was not a time to think, no matter how much or how little she truly wanted to contemplate her current situation. She had no strength left to speak aloud, so she spoke quietly, "Are you braggart children who try to tattle on their siblings? You all look alike, so you must all be from this place, this Skyrim. If you really must make me care, then explain like the true men and women that you seem to be, not as the snot-nosed, knobby-kneed brats that you wish you were."

The silence was deafening.

"Well?" She growled. The longer they stood silent, ashamed by whatever reasons they held to themselves, the longer she must wait. "Don't any of you want to talk anymore? Why just a moment ago, you were all so enthusiastic." She added snidely. Her eyelids were drooping already. She didn't have the energy to keep up with all their chattering.

One of the boys behind Ralof, another Stormcloak Soldier who looked still too young to even shave, raised his hand and asked, "My Lady, did you just say you did not know where Skyrim is?"

"Did I say that? I meant to say I didn't know what Skyrim is," She replied and glared at the boy until he shrunk back.

"You cannot be serious?" Ralof asked, stepping in for his comrade's defense, "You are in Skyrim, My Lady… how is it possible…?"

"Just…" She sighed again. She wiped away the still wet streaks of tears on her cheeks before she thought of how to best ask her questions. Thinking of no other way, she said, "Just answer me, as if today is the first day I came to this world, like a newborn child."

"Oh… okay? Alright," Hadvar stepped, "I don't know what they teach you in the Stormcloaks, since that organization is little more than a minor rebellion, so perhaps it is best we answer your questions together."

"That is acceptable, Hadvar," she replied simply.

"Years ago, the Empire was defeated by the Aldmeri Dominion, which is ruled by the Thalmor. The Thalmor forced the Empire into something known as the White-Gold Concordat, which banned the worship of Talos. But other than that, this had allowed the two nations a peace that we have tried to…" Hadvar tried to explain, but was interrupted by Ralof.

"What Hadvar neglected to mention is that the majority of Skyrim, worships Talos. Skyrim was the northern most… province… of the Empire and the place where the best of the Empire's warriors and soldiers came from. When the Thalmor banned Talos, the White-Gold Concordat allowed them to travel through Imperial lands to hunt down any and all Talos worshipers… and allowed them to kill them on whim, and with extreme hatred," Ralof added vehemently.

"So the Ulfric Stormcloak thought it would be a great idea to kill Skyrim's High King!" Hadvar threw his hands up in the air futilely, "As if the Empire had enough problems as it was already!"

"Well, not a single one of the Jarls of Skyrim was even consulted when your Emperor agreed to this White-Gold Concordat!" Ralof rebutted. Both men's faces were red, not from shouting, but from anger. "What right does the Empire who doesn't care about its citizens have, to dictate what god we worship?"

"Ahem," she cleared her throat loudly. This time, she caught the attention of both men. Perhaps they did not want to be blown onto their asses again. She summarized what they had stated thus far, "So what you are telling me is this: both your Empire and your Skyrim are being hurt by the Thalmor, who seem to be your true enemies, correct?" At their nod, she continued, "I would want to ask why you did not simply band together to defeat this Aldmeri Dominion, but…"

She pointed behind them, towards the north, away from the cavern they had just exited moments ago. To the north, a huge plume of black smoke and orange embers grew into the sky. It was a fire of destruction that only one thing could have caused so quickly.

The terror-inducing roar of a dragon came next.

"…Perhaps we should see to those who are being attacked first?"

* * *

><p>She was joking, of course. Her tone was awkward, which was strange and out of place since every other word she had utter thus far had a touch of nobility. The Stormcloaks and the Imperials shook and mentally tilted their heads at her before being snapped back to reality by the screech of the infernal beast raining fire just paces ahead of them.<p>

She knew she could not match the dragon alone; she felt only enough of her reserves remaining that she should be able to match the average soldier, and a little more. She had realized that even if she had run dry, all that would happen is her own fatality. She would not disappear into wisps of light; there was nothing tying her down to this place. She was in a human body.

It felt as if she had been given another chance, to do whatever she wanted. She had landed in a strange land, where no one probably knew where Britannia is. Not even their magic was similar to that of her world's. Dare she say it? Had she truly, by some strange miracle, come to a new land?

Did she want to savor this new chance? Couldn't she take on the life of a commoner and live in peace, letting those more deserving than her to rule? But even if she wanted to have that simple life, her knightly desires tugged at her heart strings. Even if she couldn't save anyone, she would not regret it if she tried…

…But did she want to try anymore? Did she want to live anymore?

For now, she had no definite answer. Because her past, she _should_ regret… but what she deserves and what she has are two completely separate things. Reality hit her harder than any Servant's Noble Phantasm, shaking her awake.

She was in the position of a leader once more. These men and women who followed her out of the caverns looked to her for guidance. Rather than bickering amongst each other, they quieted themselves with the discipline of professional soldiers. Each and every face conveyed how they quelled their emotions and readied themselves to die… for a greater cause. Even the young boy, in the oversized armor, hiding behind Ralof seemed to stand straighter as her glaze passed over him.

For some reason, she felt them worthy soldiers and worthy to be called comrades. To see the fires of determination and the steel of willingness within their eyes, to even face potential doom in the maw of a dragon, while being only regular people, was heartening to her. Even though they did not know it yet, she felt as if they were telling her, through their eyes and postures, that they would follow her even to the depths of hell.

Even if she did not feel them worthy, how could a knight even contemplate running away and hiding in a hovel to live a peaceful life now, when faced with this? How could she dare wish so selfishly for peace when even these men and women would lay their lives and their pride for this noble, greater purpose and for her?

She could not.

So she smiled grimly, all pretenses of sarcasm and humor wiped from her face. Something stirred within her, like her spirit of old. In the voice of a warrior-queen straight out of a fairytale, she spoke, whispering strength into her followers, "Imperials. Stormcloaks. Are you not all defenders of Skyrim? Are you not the knights who defend this realm against all its evils? Would you really allow such petty squabbles impede your duty?"

She spoke quickly, racing against time. Every second she spent longer speaking was a second that someone could be taken into the jaws of destruction. Her voice grew louder and louder, building into a crescendo.

And the soldiers, simple men and women of this land, answered despite all their fears and doubts, "No!"

"There is a dragon," she pointed across the vale at the towers of smoke that rose from a burning village, "A dragon that is raping your land and slaughtering your families! Where are the professionals who defend this land? Do you stand and argue amongst each other when there is work to be done?"

"No!" They replied again. Each of them had drawn their weapons, sent into a feverish fervor by her words, by exhaustion, and by desperation. They pumped their hands into the air together in unison despite their differences and despite how they might have been at each others' throats only a day prior.

"Are you going to stand by as it burns this town to the north?" She asked.

She heard several of the soldiers gasp, realization of which town was burning coming to them slowly. Hadvar was the first, muttering, "Riverwood…! No!"

"What do you say to this beast?" Her voice intensified to its cusp. "Noble warriors, hear me! You will look this beast in the eyes, you will look into the abyss, and you will stand adamant! You may whisper or you may shout, to this terrible creature, '_You shall not pass!_'"

As one, they rose despite themselves. These Stormcloaks and these Imperials shed their doubts of defeat, having long since lost their doubts of _Her_. They followed her as she gathered herself, having long since revitalized from her earlier more fragile state. She ran, but did not run ahead. She kept herself close, knowing that even now, she had no way of defeating a dragon as powerful as the one she had faced earlier on her own. She knew she must rely on her companions now and she felt safe. Their innervated faces flashed in her mind with each step, even as she thought and planned how to best fell the beast.

"Hurry!" Ralof's Nordic voice roared over their stampede, spurring his fellows forward. But it wasn't just him who shouted with such urgency, all of the others also rushed ahead, pushing themselves to run as fast as they could pace themselves. Ralof shouted, "For Family!"

"For Riverwood!" Hadvar added as desperately as Ralof. The soldier's voices all mixed, but one thing was certain. Their desperation spurred them to speed up faster than any motivation.

They ran towards the smoke and fire, with little care for themselves. They did not take the winding, paved path. Instead, they ran straight through the foliage, stomping over any animal or flora without a second glance.

As they drew close, she saw it—a flying shape swooping in and out of the clouds, spitting gobs of flame and ice, leaving everything in ruins. The village was surrounded by a wall of ice, which the dragon seemed to use to impede any chances of the villagers' escape. Where there wasn't a wall of ice, there was a wall of fire. They could peek in just enough to see that everything was alit with red and orange flames. Compared to the scenery they just passed, it was a picture of hell inside the village.

The dragon flew overhead with a screech that caused their hands to vibrate, along with the ground. Everything seemed to shake, even the world itself, as it turned around. Its eyes were like bright embers as it noticed them.

"Archers!" She shouted quickly. The beast was flying too high above for their steel to reach and was too agile. The only way their arrows would hit was if it was flying towards the arrows. All other attempts would probably veer off harmlessly.

But she was too late, even as the dozen soldiers following her drew their bows, the dragon's vast shadow passed over them. Their arrows all flew harmlessly, too slow to reach the speeding monster as it dove back into the clouds.

"Get to cover, don't stand in the clearing," Ralof shouted. He waved for his friends to get off the road.

Saber interrupted, noticing that there was no one from the village actually struggling to put up a resistance against the dragon at all. The stench of charred bodies assailed her nostrils and offended her senses. Even with all this death, she knew there were people still living amongst the ruins. "Draw it away from the village!" She called to them, "Divide up, don't let its—"

Before she could finish, the dragon had dove down and crash landed on top of the soldiers at the rear, killing two of them immediately. It spun around, just as everyone scattered, and roared, "YOL TOOR SHUL!"

Time seemed to slow as she turned around to face the beast.

She noticed that the boy who had stood behind her had frozen at the sight of the dragon. His legs were shaking, and he had dropped his weapon. The molten bolt of flame that was building in the dragon's mouth glowed brighter than the sun from the corner of her eyes. She pushed herself forward, and tucked the boy's waist in under her arm and leaped away, just as the dragon spewed a wave of fire that melted a line of earth straight through the village.

She had a moment to look around to see the black, glassy earth that was left in wake of the dragon's breath before her soldiers all shot their arrows. Not all of them hit, but all that had hit merely bounced off of the dragon's thick hide.

"Again!" Hadvar shouted from somewhere behind the trees, "Another volley!"

As the archers notched their bows, the dragon shot around towards the direction of Hadvar's voice. It moved faster than its large mass could belay. Many only saw a dark blur passing by before the air pressure of its movement pushed them off their feet.

She heard cries and shouts, even as she dropped the boy-soldier on the ground. But thankfully, the dragon had not been able to take any more of the soldiers yet. It roar in frustration and flapped its wings. With each flap, a gale of wind built up blowing away the bushes and plants that offered some cover.

"Ha, ha!" Ralof shouted from behind her, "We Nords don't need cover anyway!" With the maddened glee of a Berserker, he jumped forward and swung around his giant axe, trying to chop at the dragon.

"Attack its underside," she advised, knowing that she could not tell him to stop after he revealed himself like this.

But it was in vain, because the dragon took to the skies again. It roared in frustration, "BEIN BRUNIIK JOORRE! STRUN!"

Where the sky had been bright and sunny, it all changed in an instant. The clouds moved against their will, swirling around here and now as if it was the center of the world. The sky darkened from day to night in an instant, and rumbled with the same fury as the dragon's voice. It was the dragon's doing, somehow. Winds grew cold and bolts of tiny shards of ice pelted them from every direct of the skies. Rain began to fall faster and harder than a monsoon.

Then the clouds flashed.

She knew what was to come, and she anticipated it, even if she did not see it. She raised her own sword to the sky, knowing that none of her followers could withstand a strike from primal lightning. It was not electricity created from magecraft. She could sense it and see it clearly. It was much, much more.

This was the very finest of reality bending, a craft that many mages in her homeland thrived and failed to achieve in many lifetimes. It was the ability to manipulate the probability of this supreme reality itself—causing lightning to strike where the dragon wished.

The flash of heat and light blasted down upon her as the bolt of lightning shook her body to her bones. Her teeth chattered as she withstood the pain, knowing that if she had not stood out, it would have hit all of her allies. In fact, it was many streaks of lightning that all pointed towards her, away from their original targets.

"K-Keep a-away f-from m-me!" She cried, suppressing the pain that stung like a thousand hot needles going into her bones. She stomped again and again, trying to ground herself, even though she knew that this supernatural, yet completely natural, lightning could not be stopped so easily. Yet her body was tittering on the brink of complete destruction. She could not withstand it for any more than a few seconds longer…

…then the dragon swooped down, roaring triumphantly.

Before she could recover from the stunning bolts, it had grabbed one of her soldiers, an older woman who looked like she was just approaching her earlier thirties, into its maw. Then it tossed the screaming woman into the air and swallowed her whole, armor and all.

By now, the lightning had subsided, yet the sky did not clear. The weather was disheartening, much like the situation.

With another roar, the dragon lifted itself into the air and dropped upon another of her companions, this time a friend of Ralof's. It lifted him into the air, with each claw holding two limbs. The man was simply torn apart like a rag doll.

Rather than eating the man, the dragon seemed to laugh at her, though all others heard only a dull roar, and flung the man's remains into the air. His body was torn into a dozen pieces and his blood splattered all over the ground, all before she could stand straight.

"MEY JOORRE!" The dragon roared again, mocking her as if this was once more a game to it.

She ignored her pain and ran before it, between the dragon and any other of her companions. Even as her tired muscles protested and strained against her will, even as blood leaked out of her tightened lips, she glared on defiantly. The electrical currents of the dragon's lightning still sparkled around her body, causing her to wince at every step.

But she strove onward and brandished her sword at the beast.

It looked down at her, and rather than spewing fire at her, it insulted her by ignoring her completely. Rather than attack her, it leaped up and swayed its long, powerful neck from side to side, looking for its next prey. And it roared gleefully as it saw someone behind her, perhaps the young soldier who had frozen earlier.

As the dragon swooped down for another morsel, she growled and pushed herself up. Her knees felt like they were burning as if live coals had replaced her bones, yet she still jumped. She grasped the dragon's breast plate, just below its neck, with her injured, bleeding hand as quickly as she could.

Her fingers began to slip, because the rain caused by the dragon's thunderstorm and the blood already on her hand. Without delay, she jabbed her sword arm up, stabbing as hard as she could with her blade. At first, it felt like the steel would bend and break from the stress, but she jabbed again and again, and continued to push in one single, herculean effort. Blade weakened and it looked as if it would sooner dull than cut the dragon. But then the scales covering the dragon's throat began to give—

—she stabbed through its throat cleanly, immediately after her blade pierced the dragon's softer scales. The beast itself struggled and roared desperately. But all that came out of its maw was a gurgle of dragon spittle and dragon blood. It flapped its wings erratically, trying to get her off of it or get the sword out of it frantically. Then it began to toss itself from side to side.

Unlike before, her arm was already weak and worn and her hands were slipping before she even had a grip on the dragon. So she was tossed like a doll, her body smashing into Hadvar, who quickly tried to cushion her landing. The rest of her companions had continued to pepper the dragon with arrows and a few had occasionally found an opening for a strike, but none of their weapons could truly deal any damage.

Strangely enough, even as the dragon regained its fury, just as quickly as she regained her footing, it did not spew any flames. In fact, she could not hear any true words coming out of its maw any longer. It was as if, through the loss of its throat, it could not use any of its strange abilities. It could not spit balls of stone-melting fire. It could not call up a storm of hail and lightning. It could not even bring itself into the air.

It seemed like she wasn't the only one who realized this either.

Like a pack of hounds, her soldiers began their attack, with reckless fury. She grabbed the sword off of the soldier who was ripped apart, knowing that even without its powers; the dragon was a flying monster with several tons of muscles.

As it thrashed blindly, trying to escape the onslaught of the human attacks, some of which were actually getting through its thick hide, she attacked again. She truly had nothing left, but she put the last of her strength into this attack. She had to.

To burn herself out for a greater cause, to be able to save all those who might die at the maw of this beast… it was worth it, wasn't it?

As she stabbed through the beast's eye and into its brain, something… something awakened inside her. Something deep within her that she never knew existed began to burn. It began to burn in an empty well that was as vast as the void.

It didn't begin immediately…

As the dragon finally stopped moving, having used up the last of its energy in its death throes, her followers all watched, too shocked to believe they had killed a dragon themselves. She too, watched, too tired to move… too tired to breathe. Her eyelids felt heavy.

"Ah…" She croaked out, "Perhaps a short sleep won't be so bad…?"

"My Lady!" They cried, all reaching for her to help her up, to be her support, as she began to collapse…

…then it happened.

That something that was deep within her was alit with power. As her eyes fluttered open, she realized it was not inside her at all. It was the dragon itself.

The dragon's emerald-green scales began to burn, like pieces of paper put too close to a candle. It burned away with a golden-white light, too blinding for anyone to withstand watching directly. Even she squinted as this dragon's body disintegrated into light. This light built and gathered out of the dragon's body, as its skeleton fell and dug into the earth. It swirled around her like an aura of pure power.

It filled her with warmth.

No, more than that, this light filled her with power. Flashes of images filtered into her mind, of peace and war. Of battles and of mediation, she felt as if she was viewing an entire life, spanning thousands of years in a single moment. But then, she realized she was. It was not her memories. It was not even just memories!

She was drinking in a soul! It was the soul of the dragon itself!

Her body healed and her pool of power filled to the brim. She felt as she had not felt in ages, complete as a human being. As her alabaster skin was restored to its smooth, beautiful form, she felt all of her aches and pains vanish. She felt whole and the ocean of power that was within her filled to the brim.

But then, there came the shocked whisper that would forever set her on a path of fate. It was an utterance of awe and fear, respect and disbelief.

"…Dragonborn…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Thu'um of A Distant Utopia**

"…_Dragonborn_…"

A hush whisper spread around the group. Everyone stood still, shocked by what had just occurred. Arturia stood at their center with everyone staring at her as if she had just jumped out of a story book. To see a dragon—a legend—defeated before their eyes, caused them to gap at her in shock. Such a thing has not been done in hundreds, if not thousands, of years!

A few of them snapped out of stupor moments later, the safety of their loved ones on the forefront of their minds. Hadvar, Ralof and two others rushed passed her, without another word, running towards the wreckage and leaving all weapons and equipment behind. They began digging without another word even as the others slumped to the ground. They were all too tired and too shocked to add anything more.

They all looked tired. One of the soldiers looked like had fallen asleep leaning against a tree. It was a strange contrast from what she was feeling at this moment. The soul of the dragon sang in her veins—in her very soul—as if its soul had been combined with hers and hummed with the power of the beast. She felt more alive than she had in a long time, longer still because the dragon's soul was so… _pure_. But it was more than that.

It was more than just the power. The dragon sang wisdom into her bones and spirit into her heart. She wondered how such a terrible beast could have such an honorable and gentle soul. But it was more than this single dragon's soul…

…Something seemed to have turned in her body. The dragon's soul started something within her. It was a reaction that could not be denied. It could not be stopped—a wild surge of power. For a moment, she felt more than she ever was, but the reality of the situation called her back.

The scent of death anchored her to the present.

"Search for survivors," she commanded as she stepped into the village. "Take him too," she nodded to the soldier who had fainted while standing up, "but let him have his rest." He had more than a few icicles sticking out of his armor and his body was covered in burns. It was a surprise that he was still standing, but she saw no blood. There was little else she could do, having less than the minimum to be a medic and having no healers on site.

She turned to the village and surveyed it as her companions began filling through the wreckage.

To their left, there were the remains of water mill, though all that was left of it was the wheel. Everything else was a pile of black ash. On the other side, across the small stream that ran through the village, most of the buildings were in the same condition. She could see the remains of a smithy of some kind, though the only still left of it was half of an anvil.

There was one building left standing at the center of the village, but it was all but a wreck. Half of it was crushed completely, as if the dragon had crashed down on it from the skies. The homes and farms that encompassed this town were still burning and smoking, with hazardous dragon's fires roaring wildly despite having nothing to burn.

"So much death…" Hadvar whispered.

She nodded grimly.

The sight, sound, and smell of the destroyed village made her wince. She held the memories of the past at bay, but she still remembered the many destroyed villages due to her wars when she was a ruler. But the worse… the worse of these memories was the haunting similarity between the ruins of Riverwood and the villages she had committed to the torch.

…these were memories she did not want.

Though this town was tiny in comparison, she had already seen half a dozen charred bodies found. Some of the bodies were no charred however… they were ripped apart by the dragon's claws.

"Follow me, protectors and defenders," she said harshly, calling their attention once more. "Our jobs are not yet done. It is not time to rest, not until we see to what we can save of this village. And no more of this conflict between Stormcloaks and Imperials; there are greater threats that we must face, and a greater duty calls… Do you understand?"

Their grim faces told her all she needed to know.

They worked together grimly, moving piles of blackened wood and melted rock with silent efficiency. The Nords built their homes to withstand the cold of the north, which means almost all the homes had a basement. They soldiers knew that they must dig through each wreckage, because each could potentially contain a survivor, trapped under piles of stone and wood. None of them spoke until the sky had almost cleared completely and the fainted soldier had come to his senses. The first to speak was the youngest of her group. He was still gaping at her as he muttered, "…I can't believe it… Dragonborn."

One of the Imperial men, who looked like he could be the boy's father, grabbed the Stormcloak boy after they started shifting through the wreckage. "What are you muttering about, boy? What's this… can you explain what just happened?"

The Stormcloak boy looked shaken. He nearly stumbled on the charred earth, but he replied, "Y-You must not be f-from S-Skyrim," he muttered. "Everyone, and their dog, knows about the legend of the Dragonborn… the… I…"

"Calm down boy," the Imperial chuckled tiredly. "I'm not going to bite, not after we did here this day."

"I-I… well," the boy scratched his head sheepishly, "I don't remember the verses, but my Pa used to sing them to me all the time. It's an old prophecy, when the end of the world begins and dragons roam the land again, the Dragonborn will come. He's supposed to have the soul of a dragon and be the king of all Nords, and… something about eating the dragons' souls?" he trailed off, without anything else to say. "I don't really remember much, just that the Dragonborn has the power of the Thu'um."

The Imperial stared menacingly at the boy for a moment and the boy cringed, expecting denial. But the denial never came; the Imperial laughed loudly and slapped the boy's shoulder, nearly knocking the worn-out boy off his feet, "Ha! Does she look like a king, boy?"

This caused a ripple of exhausted chuckles amongst the soldiers close enough to hear them, as they took a moment to rest. The rush of adrenaline had long since worn off and many of them looked like they could barely stand. Running all the way from the caves to the ruins of Riverwood just to fight a dragon was taxing on the human body after all.

Even she blinked at the Imperial's jab and allowed her mouth to twitch, unnoticed by everyone, at the irony.

As the Stormcloak boy and the Imperial soldier moved away to work on a different house, Hadvar and Ralof approached her. They were both exhausted and were both running on shock and adrenaline by now.

"I don't know much about this Dragonborn stuff, but how do you feel, My Lady?" Hadvar asked as he pulled out a waterskin. He was smiling tiredly at her. She noticed that he had not escaped the dragon unscathed; his left side was covered in cuts and his left shoulder was charred from a close encounter with the dragon's breath. Some of his hair also looked like it had been burned off. As he asked his question, he offered his waterskin to her.

He was busy earlier trying to dig through the remains of the smithy, even though there was nothing left of it. Even the lower level of the smithy held nothing but black ash. Thankfully, there had been no bodies found within, yet. Ralof had disappeared to the eastern corner of the village, but had just come back empty handed, without any corpses to report. She had breathed a little easier because of this.

She waved away his water; her need was less than any of theirs. "I… don't know about this legend of the Dragonborn, but I can feel the dragon's power within my body."

"Ah, right, first day in Skyrim, right?" Ralof added from beside her, taking Hadvar's waterskin. "At least we solved the dragon problem. This—"

"Don't be complacent," she interrupted sharply, "This is far from over."

"W-What do you mean?" Ralof frowned.

"Did you notice this dragon's scales? It is green, but the dragon that attacked our… execution… was black. That one was far more powerful than this one too," she added. "This is… far from over."

They sat in silence as realization dawned upon them. She saw from the creases on their foreheads that they were trying to think, but from the flutter of their eyes, and many other bodily reactions, they were obviously too drained for such actions.

"I see…" Ralof muttered, "Well… This is far over my head, what do you propose we do, my Lady? Assuming these Imperials don't arrest us immediately, of course," he added, frowning at Hadvar.

"I… I don't know what to think about this either; this is like a nightmare," Hadvar added as he shook his head, "I don't think any of my men will be very happy to arrest you either after what we just went through. What do you think, My Lady? I… I need to sit down somewhere. This is… I don't know what to think. I… I just know that this isn't the time for us to argue."

Ralof nodded, "Agreed."

She smiled at them, "Let us finish searching the ruins then. There is still that last building left… the inn was it? Perhaps everyone in the village holed up there together."

"Yeah, the Sleep Giant Inn. We can only hope for the best…" Ralof nodded. "I'm surprise that it's still left standing. The dragon's fire melted even steel! The stone gate had been turned into a pile of slag…!"

She turned to Hadvar, knowing that he had something to add, but he just shrugged at her. "I don't know much," he said, "but I'm pretty sure Orgnar isn't a mage or something, my Lady. It's probably good luck that half of the inn is still left, though I don't think anyone will settle here again."

"And that's where you're wrong," Ralof cut in, "Orgnar isn't the owner. It's Delphine, though she doesn't seem to have anything special about her either—"

Before he could finish his sentence, one of the collapsed pillars of wood at the Sleeping Giant Inn flew out of the ruins, kicked by a woman. She had blond hair bound in a ponytail and looked twenty years younger than her real age, but she looked like a fighter. Dressed in all leather armor and armed to the teeth, she glared around at the coalition of warriors who were clearing up the village and looking for survivors. As she turned towards Arturia, her eyes widened and she climbed out of the ruins in a single, acrobatic bound with grace found in only a lifetime of practice.

"—and that's Delphine," Ralof muttered numbly.

* * *

><p>"You…" Delphine growled. Her hands slipped deftly to her side as two thin, curved blades appeared silently in her hands. They were longer than the short swords used by the Stormcloaks and single-edged, but they looked sharper than any of the blades used by the Imperials. Her eyes narrowed when she leveled her glare at Arturia, "What are you people doing here? Who… are you?"<p>

"We're…" Both Ralof and Hadvar were too shocked to speak, but when they did, they did not know what to say. One was an Imperial and the other was a Stormcloak—who in Skyrim would believe they could work together? Their moment of hesitation only made the blond woman more suspicious of them.

That was the only warning they had.

Arturia grabbed Ralof and Hadvar and pulled, just in time to take them out of the reach of the twin blades that would have slashed both of their necks open had they stood where they did a moment longer. She stood between them and the dangerous woman, who was now glaring at her suspiciously. The swords moved faster than Arturia had anticipated and faster than either Ralof or Hadvar could see.

Another flash of steel—the sound of steel sang in the air—Arturia pushed her followers away and ducked. She was fast, but the woman was inhumanly fast too. Arturia saw a strand of her hair fall. Before it touched the ground, the woman took another swipe at her.

Delphine's feet flashed as she leaped at Arturia. Her arms moved independent of each other, forcing Arturia back and on the defensive. Ducking low, Delphine swiped at Arturia's feet. Just as Arturia evaded this attack, Delphine spun around and attacked high and low with consecutive feints. To anyone else, they moved like blurs; Delphine's movements were flashy, but every one of her movements led to another, building up her speed and reinforcing her position.

Yet even if Delphine had a lifetime's training which imbued her with the speed of a master swordswoman, she could not match Arturia. For every movement, Arturia moved less, yet still evaded all of her following attacks. Even as she attacked relentlessly, even she noticed that Arturia was leading her on in a circle so that she could not engage the others.

To Arturia, Delphine's style was strange, yet she remembered these weapons; she had faced them before. Unlike the other masters of the katana she had faced, this woman's style was strange. It reminded her of a variation of the Two Heavens as One style, but this felt as if it was not originally designed for a human to use. But it was adapted superbly; Delphine was constantly in a stance of equal offense and defense, yet constantly leaving no openings for Arturia to retaliate…

…if she were only human.

But Arturia was more than that. Even in such a strange body, her skill was beyond any level humans could attain. Their interaction happened in less than a few seconds, but Arturia had had enough. Arturia slipped through Delphine's defense and grimaced as she slapped away the woman's blades. Delphine had been fast enough to twist her wrist, leaving a thin line of red on the back of Arturia's hand.

"We are here to help," Arturia tried to calm the woman down, knowing that if she drew her weapon she would only antagonize the older woman further, "Stop and desist at once!" She slapped the woman's hands hard enough that her weapons fell from her grip.

"Tch," Delphine took two steps back but didn't move to pick up her weapons. She drew her hands back into her pockets as she cursed, "Damned Thalmor… not even sending elves after me… I must really be out of practice."

"Delphine! We're not here to fight you," Hadvar called from behind Arturia. "Don't you recognize us?"

She stopped mid-step and frowned at Hadvar while still keeping an eye on Arturia. After a moment, a spark of recognition lit in her eyes before her frown deepened. "Hadvar? What… happened to you? You…"

It was only then that she noticed the dragon corpse behind them, just outside the village gates.

It was still glowing faintly with the dragon's soul. The scales glowed like the sun, burning the dragon's body from the inside. But the power was dim now, compared to earlier. It was just a residue, even just an echo, of what had already happened.

"Oh." She mouthed as her hands dropped from behind her back, a dozen throwing knives falling out of her hands while what looked like a smoke bomb rolled between her practiced fingers. She blinked mutely at the dragon's body, and then at then entourage before her. "Why… this doesn't make any sense. A dragon would be their biggest…"

Arturia stepped forward, thinking that this woman had finally seen the error in her actions. But the moment her first step forward touched the ground, Delphine's guard was raised again, as some more daggers flipped out of her bracers, "Stop! This—"

"Delphine!" A muffled, child's voice interrupted her, "is it safe yet? It's really stuffy down here!"

"D-Dorthe!" Hadvar gasped from behind Arturia. He ran passed both women without a care for his own safety, shouting, "Is that you, Dorthe? It's Uncle Hadvar! W-Where are you?" He ran to the ruins where Delphine had jumped out of and noticed a collapsed tunnel downwards into an antic that he never knew the Sleeping Giant Inn had. It was a secret room, filled with weapons, but more importantly, it was filled with a majority of the citizens of Riverwood.

A man called up from below, "Hadvar! You rascal! How did you get here? Is the dragon gone?"

"T-The dragon? Ha!" Hadvar laughed even as tears ran down his cheeks. At the sound of his shouts, Arturia's other followers had also ran to them and cheered. "The d-dragon is… dead! W-we, or I should say she, killed it!"

"What nonsense are you babbling about, Hadvar?" The voice called from below. There was a growl in the voice, but it sounded playful. "Have you been hitting the bottle again?"

"I'll hit the bottle again if I can!" Hadvar sobbed as he began trying to digging through the rubble with his bare hands. Even as he shook with tears and laughter, "A-as soon as I p-pull you out, I'll hit the bottle with you! The best ale, on me!"

"You better not be lying," the voice called again, "There's no ale left in town!"

As the others rushed to help Hadvar pull the survivors of Riverwood out of their hidden bunker, they left only Delphine with Arturia. The two women stared at each other for a moment before Delphine turned away and said, "Look, I'm… I apologize about what I did. I was rash, frightened. I had thought… well, it's better you don't know. I… this day is moving too quickly for me to keep up."

For once, Arturia felt the same. Since the woman did apologize, she thought it best to replicate the gesture, at least. "I… felt the same way. To awaken in this strange land… now they tell me I am the Dragonborn. This day has been tiring."

"Dragonborn…? Really?" Delphine spun on her heels, snapping back towards Arturia so fast, she thought Delphine's neck might have broken into pieces.

"I drank the dragon's soul, and that was what these soldiers told me," Arturia replied evenly to Delphine's scrutinizing stare. She answered truthfully but the suspicion Delphine wielded like a giant's club was unsettling.

"…Unbelievable…" Delphine muttered.

Arturia frowned at this. Did Delphine believe she was speaking falsehoods? She felt challenged. The images of their scuffle flashed before her eyes in an instant. Arturia winced. The image of the all the human soldiers who died before her today cried at her ears. Her breathing quickened. Her heart pounded in the rhyme of war drums, beating like the thousand steps of a professional legion. She grinded her teeth together…

…Finally, the sound of a roar pierced her mind. It was the sound echoed a thousand times within her soul. It was the sound of a dragon answering a challenge, awakening to a threat. She felt her soul roar in unison.

But as quickly as it came, the dragon's spirit fled her being. The roar of the beast became distant as she stared at Delphine. Her focus had returned a hundredfold.

Delphine unceremoniously took a step back, as if something in the air had physically pushed her off her balance. As she stared into the petite girl's eyes, she felt her will being swallowed whole. It was unsettling and it left her breathless.

"I suppose… I am the Dragonborn," Arturia muttered softly, her eyes almost glowing with an eerie, ghastly light as the dragon's soul shone through. She took a step forward for every step Delphine took back, until Delphine found herself backed against a wall without realizing how she arrived there. Arturia did not pause.

She kept moving until she was inches in front of Delphine, "I am… the Dragonborn. Yet you know more of this title than I. Tell me what it means, I demand it."

"D-Demand it?" Delphine choked at the sheer arrogance of the statement. She moved to defend herself once again, though not to draw out any weapons. But as she did so, her eyes met Arturia's. To someone like Delphine, who spent a lifetime on the run, the way this girl—no, this woman—spoke raised too many warnings in her mind. Her mannerisms were in sync with too many of those common within her ancient enemy. At least, that was Delphine's first thought. Yet even with a passing glance, this girl's tone and posture spoke of someone who did not believe in inherent superiority. This girl was no girl at all. She was a warrior queen, like the many legends that spoke of Alessia. Her very being radiated with a tangible aura of power, causing Delphine to gasp, "… Just who exactly are you? _What_ are you?"

"I…"

_A girl who stands before the crowd… they watch her with anticipation…_

She tried to blink away the past, but it came back at her like a storm.

_The sword in the stone… Fire, Fire, Fire, Fire, Fire… Iron clashing with Iron, Chaos everywhere… The Red Dragon awakens and rears its Head…_

She shook her head. She was what she was, but now she is something different. It was a chance to be different. Did she even have the luxury of regret? She replied grimly, "I am Arturia Pendragon. They tell me I am Dragonborn." She spoke simply for one reason, "Tell me what that means. I seem to have drunk the soul of the phantasmal beast."

She motioned at the undeniable corpse of a dragon, still at the mouth of the village. The adults were sensible to keep away from such a thing, but one of the boys went to it and started poking its eyes. Delphine felt her mouth open but no sound came out. What could she say to that?

"Pen… dragon?" Delphine repeated in a hush, wondering at the strange, unknown clan name. She quickly moved passed this. She thought to herself, that just because she was over fifty winters, it did not mean she was going senile. She replied to Arturia, "If… if you are really the Dragonborn, then I salute you, but there is much I cannot say so openly."

Arturia could see the woman's eyes dart from left to right, full of suspicion. She was not without any suspicion herself, but she knew she could best this… Delphine… if it came to that. She would wait for a more secure place to speak.

The village needed her. The people needed her.

It was chaos.

Not a single thing, outside of that small, underground passage survived the dragon's onslaught. People scrambled about, trying to dig into their own homes. Yet all that was left was piles of molten slag and ash. Even for food, there was nothing remaining.

It was with that, that both Ralof and Hadvar approached Arturia with a haggard, blond-haired woman. If she was ten years young, she would have been the beauty of the village for sure. But Arturia saw the signs of toiling on her body, leaving scars and tight muscle where a housewife would have none. What's more, the woman wore gloves covered in sawdust and her work clothes were similarly dirtied.

"This is my sister, Gerdur," Ralof waved at her slowly. Their faces bore some resemblance to each other. "She…"

"I can introduce myself, Ralof," Gerdur interrupted. She pushed the men back, which was a surprise even for them by the looks on their faces. "I hear you saved our lives. I suppose I should say we owe you our thanks, and maybe something more. But as you can see, we have nothing left at all…"

Arturia nodded, feeling it be best to reply, "None of you owe me anything and I didn't do it alone." She said magnanimously. She nodded to the men around her, who were helping each other without a care of their affiliations.

"Yes, well…" Gerdur answered frustratedly as she ran a hand through her hair. She was at a loss but she recovered quickly, "Our village, if you can call it that, is small and poor. It started around this lumber mill of mine… Look, what I'm saying is we have nothing now. But that means… well, I would do anything if you could help us more than you already have. I wouldn't think any less of you if you don't however…"

Arturia felt a cruel humor in that, and resist grinning and making a sharp remark. "Tell me what you need," she said. It surprised her how relaxed she sounded. There was not a tinge of weariness in her voice.

Duty…

To protect those who could not protect themselves, she remembered, was a duty of the knight. She smiled to herself at the thought. Becoming a knight for herself, because of her own will and not because of fate, seems like an illusion.

"I need…" Gerdur started but added, "We need you to escort us to Whiterun, the city of the Jarl who protects us. He'll… he will provide for us. Perhaps even reward you, I don't know, but…"

There was something in her eyes. Some mix of desperation and wisdom that caused her to say it, "These men, if it were not for you, would have killed each other by now. And then what would become of us? Any of the roaming bandits would find us easy picking, not to mention with the Thalmor wandering about…"

"You wish for me to escort you to the City of Whiterun?" Arturia did not pretend to ponder. She would have accepted anyway, but she needed a direction for herself. She asked, "I am just one woman. Why do you think I could keep these men from killing each other?"

Gerdur almost laughed, but it was Delphine who interrupted and said, "If Hadvar and Ralof had not already told her about you, I'd ask you why don't you look at the soldiers? That should answer you easily enough."

Arturia blinked and looked around. The soldiers, both Stormcloaks and Imperials, were as they were since she met them. She turned back to Gerdur and Delphine curiously and puzzled on this. Seeing their amused looks, she asked, "What do you mean?"

Gerdur blinked, as if to ask, "You don't see it?" But she kept it to herself if she did want to ask that. Instead, she asked almost humorous, trying to find humor in anything to keep her from thinking about the present, "Don't you understand the men you lead? I mean… I apologize, but see how they look at you when you aren't looking? See how they sit straighter and stand taller when your eyes sweep over them? They already see you as their leader, despite the short amount of time you've known them. Can't you see that?"

Gerdur sounded like she asked it out of some kind of humor. Her eyes were innocent and she did not seem to be malicious, but Arturia felt something in her tingle. It seemed like a short, sharp stab at her heart, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

"I… see," she replied simply. She didn't see it, not really. She dearly hoped to, but was it something in her mind? Was she just unable to be human, no matter how much she tried? Being the supposedly perfect leader had robbed her of this ability to empathize with her people. She turned away from them and looked at the large structure in the mountains. It appeared so close, yet so far. It loamed over the village forebodingly. She stared at it, away from everything else, and asked, "How long do you need to depart?"

"Oh, just enough time to gather everyone together," Gerdur replied. "I think I can do it better than your soldiers at that anyway. Leaving your only life behind is harder than it seems, you know?" It didn't matter that there was nothing to leave behind at all anyway.

"What about the…" Ralof pointed at the dragon's body tiredly. "Should we bring it along…?"

"It might be useful in persuading people to help you," Arturia decided after a moment.

"M-my lady," Hadvar interrupted, "Perhaps… is it alright if we rested? Y-you are very eager to help Riverwood, and I… I thank you for that. I can understand if you bare some ill-will for the Empire after what we tried to do earlier… but not all of the Empire is like that… I mean, what I wanted to say is… our men are on the verge of collapse. The day has been harder on them than you might think."

Arturia made a face. "Resting here would be bad, the stench of the dead would not avail rest." She licked her forefinger and stuck it into the air before saying, "Hadvar, Ralof, gather the men and move up hill. There's fresher water there and the scent of the village will not carry up here. You will rest for the night, and we shall move in the morning."

Most of the men, not just the soldiers but also the villagers, collapsed and slept the moment they set camp at the hill looking over the village. Only as she rested her legs by leaning against an oak, did Arturia realize how tired she was. She was so tired that she barely noticed Delphine approach her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thu'um of A Distant Utopia**

_I soared through the skies, enjoying a freedom only my kind enjoyed. I am so high above the clouds that everything else is too miniscule to be seen. My jaw lowered, letting my tongue roll out slowly and skim a line along the clouds. They are tasteless, but grasping these vaporous bodies is a delight that only we can enjoy. And I enjoy it, never taking it for granted. With a beat of my heavy wings, the forces of the world bows before me._

_Time, space, gravity… to one of the children of the gods, these are just toy blocks to be played with. How the humans must envy what we have? How all things must envy us? How many magnitudes are we superior to all things… and that is why we shall rule, conquer and dominate… because everything else has no other choice but to acknowledge our superiority._

_I am the blood dragon lieutenant of my father, Bonaaraakkul. While I have one thousand brothers and one thousand sisters, I will take all things for what they are. This s a wondrous world our maker has created and we must show our appreciation to our father thus. It is our duty. Duty binds all things…_

_For these lesser beings to serve us, to toil at our will, that is our right. That is their duty. This is the order of the world and how our great brother, Alduin, has taught us to be. Staad Naal Heyv… we are all bound by duty. All things are bound by duty. That is the law of the world…_

Arturia's eyes shot open with a gasp.

The dream was more than any dream could be; it was so vivid. It was a memory, not a dream, she quickly realized. The soul of the dragon she had slain boils within her, and she feels its power pulsing softer and softer as the images from this memory seemed to fade into the background. She found herself out of breath, exerted but not knowing what she was exhausted from. The soft thunder of war drums seemed to beat in her ears, as a choir of warriors hummed an ancient hymn.

Dizzy and confused, she stood. The night was so silent that the grinding of her feet against pebbles sounded like gongs. No one seemed to awaken. As she walked away from the camp slightly into the night, the light of the orange embers dimmed against her back. She stalked silently into the head, feverish in the mind. Her body has broken down the soul of the beast, but it was no mere beast. It was a divine being, son of the god that created this world… according to it. She could still feel the dragon's thoughts and memories bouncing within her head.

…She needed to get away. She felt like… like…

This isn't the place to figure this out. She shook her head violently and glided across the wreckage of the town. The blackened earth and melted stones were cold down and the ice have all but melted. There was nothing for her here. She kept walking, her strides wide and fast, making her a blur to anyone but herself. She felt the call of the snow, the wind and the rocks. She felt the barrow atop the mountain calling out to her, as if to grasp at her soul. There was something there that could answer her questions.

So she leapt forward, picking up speed. She needed to know.

* * *

><p>Arturia quickened her pace when the winter winds began to howl. As she made her way up the mountain path, icy shards began raining down all around her and the scenery changed. Moist earth and flora quickly made way for jagged boulders and harsh snow. She soon found her sense of smell growing weaker as the cold numbed her nose. It was an uncomfortable feeling that forced her to raise an arm in order to shield her face, though it was an action that did entirely too little.<p>

In the back of her mind, she grumbled that she should have brought more clothing, but she still climbed up. There was something calling her and beckoning her on, like a hundred tiny chains pulling at her limbs. Soon even her armor was not enough. The ice that built up on her armor slowly melted down, making the leather wet and stick to her skin, which resulted in her shivering. The cold was numbing; she couldn't but help think of the last time she had been so affected by the weather as a human. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

It felt like only moments ago that she was running up the side of the mountain, but she found herself laboring for each step. She lifted her head and saw a wall of white before her. A thousand flakes as large as her eyes fluttered before her, like a swarm of angry bees. These flakes of snow certainly stun like bees against her skin, she mused grumpily.

The snow beneath her was getting thicker now. With each step she took, she could hear and feel a drawn-out crunch of powdery snow. It wasn't a pleasant feeling to be knee-deep in snow. Bits and pieces of ice had slipped into her boots and melted on the fur-lined soles, making her movements even more sluggish than earlier.

Arturia kept climbing until she reached a split in the trail. One side pulled at her, yet that was where all the cold winds flew from. Through a thin veil of snow, she could see that the other road led to some kind of tower. It was closer than whatever was pulled at her and she desperately needed the rest.

The tugging feeling, as she soon found out, was not something that was physical. It affected her mind only, like a song that was too soft to be heard but kept growing in volume as she moved closer. She felt her teeth grit when she exerted her efforts to resist the urges to keep going, if only for a moment's rest.

In all honesty, she welcomed this feeling of tiredness. It told her she was human, even if she knew she was more than that. But she tried to latch on to that forlorn fondness of her past and used it to direct herself towards the shelter.

As she moved away, into the shadow of the mountain, the howling grew soft. The winds died down and she felt a soft spread of warmth over her skin as the sun reflected off of the snow around her. The song grew louder. It was like a hundred warriors uttering a solemn war-chant from every side.

It was distracting.

Arturia didn't even notice an arrow fly pass her left ear, taking a few strands of hair, until it clattered onto some rocks in the distance behind her. The buzzing sound of the arrow flying by shook her into awareness. She was quick enough to bat away the next arrow, which flew at her right eye.

She squinted up at the base of the tower. There were two men in crude iron and leather armor, yelling profanities at her while waving their weapons. The larger of the two walked towards her with a tall mace in his hands and swung without warning. The attack itself was too slow for her not to dodge, but his lack of words for her caught her by surprise. These people must be bandits, but even thieves in her time had the courtesy to at least say a few words before assault. These ruffians sought to simply kill her and loot her, she realized. If they had no words for her, then why should she have words for them?

As a knight, she would challenge them each individually, but Arturia has grown out of that naïveté. No, that wasn't right; she still believed in knighthood, but she knew enough about bandits to know that any efforts she made would be lost.

She took a lazy step back, just out of the range of the first swing. The next swipe came across from the left down towards her right, but she only needed to lean left to evade the second clumsy mace-swing. Behind the man, his friend was notching up another arrow. Arturia lined herself away from the mace-wielding man, but lured him on. It was a silly thing to do, but she didn't like to be teamed up on.

She watched her footwork; being nearly knee-deep in snow caused her to stumble a step before she caught herself. Thankfully, she was not fighting against a weapons master; this thug didn't even take advantage of her own sluggish mistakes. Nonchalant, she still didn't draw her weapon and still egged the man on. The mace user took another step at her, roaring something incoherent, but before he could finish, an iron arrow pierced his throat and came out of his Adam's apple.

Arturia dodged the gory mess that splattered all over the snow.

She pushed the man aside, noting that there was only a near path up the slope to the tower. The body fell into the snow and slid down the hill a few inches before it came to a stop. The man was already dead. Arturia felt she should feel remorse, but the loss of this man was nothing like the loss of someone with morals… she wondered if she should really separate people this way, as she side-stepped another arrow and punched the archer so hard, he back flipped twice and crashed against a tree.

Several voices shouted at the sound of the archer's skull crunching against bark from the tower. It seemed like there were three more. Arturia grimaced, seeing one of them staying atop the tower and trying to rain arrows down at her. Another was running down the stairs, and a third… she couldn't see the last bandit.

She looked down at the archer. Like all archers who used bows, this one had a nice visible knife sheathed away. She frowned; it was a curved dagger. She pulled it out and twirled it with one hand a couple of times, testing the weight and balance of the thing. It was dull, but it would do—Arturia tossed it at the archer on the top of the tower. The dagger whirled into action like a tiny disc of death. Arturia had intended for its edge to slit the archer's throat, but instead, the hilt smashed into the archer's throat. The archer fell, making an audible gurgle that caused Arturia to frown—she would have to put the man out of his misery in a moment.

Just then, one of the bandits charged out with sword and shield in hand. Arturia blinked in surprise—this one was a female. It was rare in her time for this kind of bandit to be female, since bandits usually stole, killed or raped. That probably means this bandit could be a stone cold bitch, or she is a family member. Judging by the way her sword-hilt was stained by so much blood that it had several layers caked up, Arturia thought the bandit was the former.

Yet this bandit had no grace or practice with the sword either. Arturia had to move faster to evade the blade, yes, but she hadn't felt the need to parry or block. It was almost… disappointing. But on the other hand, dragons were phantasm beasts of great magical power… bandits were simply bullies who continued to prey on the weak. Arturia felt a tinge of disgust as she saw how much blood covered the bandit's leather gloves. There must have been at least a dozen dead by her hands alone.

Arturia batted a clumsy swing aside. To the one who is the epitome of Servant Saber, such sword-work was disgraceful. She grasped the bottom of the bandit's shield and slammed it up against the bandit's chin. The bandit was unlucky enough to be forced into biting her own tongue. Arturia saw her opponent's weapon slip from her hands, picking it up into her expert hands before it even touched the snow. Then she shoved it into the bandit's throat, spilling the murderer's blood all over the virgin snow.

There was a last accomplice somewhere in the tower. After trudging through the snow for so long, Arturia found the feeling of stepping on wood or stone to be a welcoming change. Her footsteps were soft, but the wetness and the ice made her each step echo in the tower's walls. A soft whimpering drifted into her senses. She almost felt like the evil doer in this instance, to have someone cowering from her in their own residence—except she knew from the scattered, stolen goods, the small piles of weapons and the piles of snow _inside the tower_, that no one had lived here in ages. The bandits must have only come in recently…

…and they were dangerously close to her own little caravan.

Arturia walked up the stairs calmly, taking her time and enjoying the splendid view of 'Skyrim' that this tower had to offer. From this high up on the mountain, she could see the entire forests down below… along with the wreckage that was one Riverwood. She shook her head sadly at the sight, before walking up to the third floor.

The floors here had a thin layer of snow, and she noticed a man huddled and shivering in a corner. She frowned and walked closer, only to have the man jump up and notch an arrow at her. But he didn't fire, so she stayed her hand. But he didn't say anything. A moment passed, and then two, Arturia realized this last bandit's lips were frozen shut. Parts of his skin had blotches of black and even he should know that he was close to death without her.

So she put him out of his misery.

* * *

><p>The slope was not steep, but she felt short of breath by the time she had reached the ancient mausoleum the locals called Bleak Falls Barrow. The snow storm she had waded through left a rough layer of tiny icicles along her skin. If she had not been burning away the prana within her, she doubted her skin would have been as rosy as it was now.<p>

Every step she took had been tough. She was high up in the mountains and trudging through a path between two peaks—the winds constantly tried to remove her breath from her lungs. No matter how she tried to block these harsh airs, they would just twist around and strike from a different angle. Instead, she had opted to simply ignore it all together and focus her energy on climbing.

She wanted to move forward. Standing still and waiting for a dream to come were actions she might have taken a lifetime ago, but not this life. So she endured these natural hardships without flinching, glaring back at the reflected sun that glared up at her.

The Barrow itself was a massive structure of stone. These bricks were huge, and the building itself must have drained from its creators decades of work and resources. In the Modern Era, such a building might have necessitated maybe one or two years and very few laborers, but in a time akin to the time of her kingdom, this…

These thoughts slipped through her mind.

She did not want to think of other things, but something forlorn and distant grasped her consciousness and pulled her towards the massive iron doors of the Barrow. The creatures etched onto the door seemed to almost come alive and grasp at her, clawing and biting before turning back into a glaring demonic gateway to the dead. Thoughts of her time, of other things, all disappeared. She was familiar with focus, but this feeling was forced upon her and she shook at it. It was like an icy claw and reached into her skull and scrapped against her brain. It was a horrible feeling that made her shiver even when the snow storm had not.

But it was only when she shivered that she noticed the three people standing around at the top of the stone steps of the Barrow. They watched her warily with dangerous eyes. These were killers, a part of her mind whispered. They bristled when she saw that she did not stop in her approach, but they did not attack her either. They wore thick furs and little metals, a sign that they were well prepared for staying here in the snow. There were other signs too—there weapons shone in the harsh sun, sharper than those of the bandits below.

These are trained killers, she thought. They came here for something, perhaps even the same thing she came here for. And these… mercenaries… might kill her too. Arturia would give them a chance, however. A sad part of her smirked at the thought; a king must be fair, even if it is only the king's own fairness.

One of these mercenaries approached her, a crude, blonde woman with a horribly scarred face. Several of those scars looked like they were made by clubs or maces, though there was an old fire-wound that removed the woman's left eyebrow. Right behind the scarred mercenary, a strange looking man notched an arrow but held his hand. Arturia thought the man was frostbitten on all of his skin at first, but realized that was his natural pigmentation. The man had strange, red eyes and even stranger, pointed ears. The other mercenaries also looked very diverse. She didn't know what this meant.

"Halt, I said halt!" the scarred woman growled in a harsh, rough tone as she walked down the stairs towards Arturia, "What's a dainty, little thing like you wandering up here in these mountains? You don't look like one of the villagers…"

"I am curious about this place," Arturia answered honestly. She had no reason to hide anything, but she realized warily that some discretion would save her a lot of trouble here.

The scarred woman did not seem to lower her guard, but she moved her hand away from her short sword. The soft click of the hilt clashing with her scabbard was barely heard over the sounds of the howling winds, but Arturia noticed after this, the mercenaries seemed less tense. The scarred woman crossed her arms and smirked, "What's this? The little lass is curious? You know what they say about curiosity…" The brutish woman trailed off. Her men laughed, but she was put off by how nonchalant Arturia was. Then she tried a different tactic, "Say, little girl. You must be from the city, eh? You're here for some fun. Well, I think I'll let my men have some fun with you."

Arturia was once called the Heroic Spirit of the Sword by those who summoned her through time and space. She was to be the epitome of the sword—of its craft and of its use. Supposedly, those who were called 'Saber' had mastery over the blade to such an extent that they were elevated above humanity into something… more. But Arturia felt otherwise.

In her countless confrontations in the infinity of time, Arturia had clashed with many masters of the blade. Even in her time, there were those who dedicated their lives to mastering their weapon to such an extent that they would be one; the weapon would be an extension of its wielder's body. In a sense, this had happened to Arturia too. As a Heroic Spirit, Arturia was known for her legend which inevitably led to the sword Excalibur. Not unlike many other masters renowned for their skill, Arturia had always been summoned with her weapon, the main sign of her legend. She might claim mastery over the use of Excalibur, but she felt she would be lying. All she had was her mastery over the mystical properties of the blade. Was she truly a master of _the_ blade then?

When she clashed with those like Sasaki Kojiro, she met real masters of their blade in combat. Without those mystical properties of her blade, could she have matched them so well? She didn't know, but now, without her blade she might.

She did not attend a special school, or learn from some old sage about a way of the sword, or hide in a cave like a hermit for her entire life to master her weapon. She did have training, but what of it? She learned how to wield the sword beside Kay, as a squire. She learned to kill in her wars. She wasn't known for her skill with the sword however, even if she was known for her sword. Those legends lie with Lancelot and Gawain and her knights…

She often wondered, if she had stopped and studied the blade a little more, might her legend have been different? All she remembered from her lifetime of training and hardship, truly of the sword, amounted to little.

Thrust, beat, parry.

She knew how to wield a sword, a knife, a lance, a shield… but why was she only known for her sword? The legends of her other skills had often faded into history.

Thrust… she jabbed her own pilfered short sword forward at the scarred mercenary, running the blade through the woman's abdomen as the woman blinked. She moved as the woman's eyes closed, and penetrated into her flesh before her eyes had opened. But the human bone was stronger than what many gave credit for and the scarred mercenary's spin prevented her blade from coming out from the mercenary's backside cleanly.

Beat… Arturia knew not to back off, because in confrontations like this, a single moment's respite was all that her opponent's needed to draw the fight out. She angled her blade forward, towards the third mercenary. The last one was a man with long, blond hair and a huge, blooded axe. The many notches on the weapon told Arturia of how skilled the man was. But her blade was not coming forward to kill the man in a single swipe. She tapped against him, pushing him. To wield such a large, two-handed weapon left the man easy to push off balance.

Parry… she then spun her blade around, intercepting the iron arrowhead of the first arrow the dark skinned elf-like man had let loose. She could have dodged, but reading the path of the missile and moving away would mean giving the man a means of controlling the area around her. Instead, she parried it, letting it fly off harmlessly and clattering away on the stone steps.

Was this all there was to her skill in the sword? She could feint and perform flowery tricks, but fights were rarely won by a grandiose display. Timing and luck were factors, but they alone didn't determine her victories at all.

She did not have fancy forms that she practiced every day and she did not have specific swings that she purposely made a thousand times over in practice. Of course, she had been wielding her sword for as long as any other master. But it came down to her technique, she realized in chagrin. She simply didn't have anything, with a simple sword, that was a fancy technique…

What else could she do? Other than thrusting, beating, and parrying, she could hack, slash, hew, and backhand. She could make precise moments that only a master of the sword could… and mastering the sword was a life-long career choice! But all of these movements, in comparison to her past foes, were just simple, basic movements.

In her annoyance at this thought, Arturia took a step forward that was unconsciously quicker and stronger than she had intended. As she shifted her weight forward, the front foot crunched into the stone floor and left an imprint of the soles of her leather boots. Her short sword slashed up diagonally, at first striking her opponent's axe and sending hundreds of sparks flying for a single moment. Then, before the force of her blow sent the opposing weapon flying, her sword cut through the axe and sliced the man's head off in a single, clean cut.

She spared her weapon a glance. Unlike her Excalibur, this rough weapon was not made for such an impact. It was already dull and had several cracks. The weight of the sword was also slightly off balance, as if the metal had bent slightly.

The archer looked at her with some kind of expression that was akin to fear. She saw the man's red pupils shrink and his eyes widen. But there were twitches here and there that were alien to a human's face. _How curious_, she thought, as she tossed her short sword through the man's skull. She would have to investigate this later. Perhaps the villagers she was compelled to abandon would have something to say about this. But now she was unobstructed, her legs moved again, as if with a will not their own. She found her hands pressed against the towering iron gates before any other thoughts passed through her mind.

Then she pushed, and walked through.

Arturia's eyes narrowed as she walked into a vast cavern. The air was moist and damp in here, as if untouched by the snow storm. It was a little warmer inside too. But she appreciated the shelter most for its lack of howling winds. Without them in here, everything seemed eerily silent.

That is, until a giant rat-beast of something kind dropped out of the ceiling.

The creature was as large as a canine and had sleek, spiked fur covered in rotting filth. Its round, rabid red eyes seemed to only scream a carnal need to feast to her. Arturia's fist flew up and smashed the critter's skull before she could even survey the cavern she had stumbled into. The rat flew with a crunch of bone against metal, and then crashed against bricked walls in another sickening crunch of bone against stone.

"What was that?" A male voice called out from the far end of the cavern. It sounded further away than the man actually was.

The cavern was dimly lit by several fresh torches and a large camp fire that sat oddly in the other end. There were pillars, bodies, and random things littered all over the room, though most of them were corpses of those rat things. However, Arturia saw a man's body hanging off of one of the tables to her right, with several chunks of flesh ripped out of it about the same size as these overgrown rats' mouths.

Although there was a large campfire on the other side of the cavern, the light from the fire did not reach her. However, the ruckus she caused was more than enough to lure whoever was on the other side out to greet her.

Two more mercenaries crept out, wearing and wielding similar items as the three she killed outside. The other was a woman, who yelled, "Stop right there and I'll kill you!"

Arturia frowned. If she were a person who liked to banter, then she might have taken the time to point out how stupid that request sounded. But she wasn't one for banter, so she grabbed the man's weapon—a steel long sword—from his scabbard before he could draw it, and dealt with both of them before they could react.

The weight of a long sword felt comforting in her hands…

She didn't have any time to enjoy the feel of the weight, nor could she even feel pity at the needless deaths of all these mercenaries, before the feeling grasped her again. It was a compulsion—that much she was sure of—but she had no idea how it could simply pierce through her protections. Didn't she have the ability to resist most magics? Something…

Something…

Something whispered to her. She could not make out what the words were. They sounded, if they sounded at all, more like roars and grunts and growls than anything else. She…

She shook her head and felt her body sway from side to side. She fell into a stance with a lower center of gravity, just to stabilize herself, but the compulsion continued. It was a howling now, the signs of something violent and forceful.

But as quickly as the feeling came, it faded away and Arturia regained her bearings just in time to see a large man in full armor charging at her.

The metal was similar material to what she was holding, a form of forged iron that was crude, yet practical. But the armor the man wore was simply too cumbersome and gaudy. It looked like something that a merchant might wear to impress his friends, not something a mercenary should wear…

…but Arturia guessed that was how this man had acquired this armor in the first place.

It was a ceremonial wear, so there were large chinks and gaps in between plates of iron. She felt almost bored when she slid her sword through the gap between the man's chest plate and helmet. The man fell with a soft gurgle, just as Arturia saw another man in similar armor fall to a pack of rats.

She had found herself deeper within Bleak Falls Barrow. The ceilings were dripping with water now, but the rooms felt even warmer than before. The room before her was something she did not expect. It was half collapsed, and there were some mechanisms here and there. She could guess that it was a puzzle of some kind, with three obelisks to the left side of the room and a lever in the middle.

It reminded her of Merlin's games that he used to 'teach' her this or that lesson.

…She hated Merlin's games.

With an almost feral growl, Arturia dashed forward. Within two steps, she was at the gate that barred her way further into the dungeon, but she didn't stop. The prana within her roared with the strength of her emotions, her irritation of Merlin, and fueled her muscles, strengthening her body and wrapping around her armor like a second layer. Then she tore the metal gate in half.

As she descended deeper, the iron gates and hordes of starving rats that greeted her were all crushed and fell into pieces. Why place these kinds of minor obstacles before her? They would not stop her and even if she did slow down and spend time to solve these children's riddles, there was no benefit in this. And if whatever is compelling her to go on cared about her desecration of the protections of this Barrow, then perhaps it should stop compelling her to keep going.

It wasn't until she walked further into the dungeon that she heard a faint voice call out to her, "Hey, whose there? Is that you…?"

The rooms grew darker as she progressed. The next room she walked into was filled with webs. These were not webs she was used to; they were as strong as bronze, but many times more elastic. Arturia felt an eerie chill settle, when she noticed that there were several cocoons lying around with the shape and size of human adults. There were dozens others, around the size of those rat-things too.

The room was dark and cold, unlike the others. Here, she saw a hole in the ceiling, where the Skyrim winters fell through…

…Her eyes widened when a giant spider as large as a horse dropped from the hole, clicking its mandibles and hissing angrily at the opposite direction. Behind the spider was another one of those dark elves, tangled in the spider's web. He saw her and cried, "Oh, thank the Eight! Come help me!"

Arturia did not feel so inclined to help the man immediately, seeing as he also wore furs similar to the mercenaries outside. But the spider was a foe to her as well, so she stepped through the webs and into the room.

This turned out to be a mistake, because the moment she stepped in, she found one of her feet stuck to the ground.

Immediately, the spider turned away from its elf, and turned to her. With an angry click, it spat a green, viscous liquid at her.

The liquid came at her like a spray, but she rotated the blade in her hands around quick enough to deflect most of it. The iron that it touched hissed and began to make a sort of gas in reaction. Arturia looked down suspiciously. The iron was being melted away by some kind of poisonous acid that ate at it. The process was slow, and she only noticed blots of rust growing on her sword, but that means she would not want this spider ichors landing on herself!

She side stepped one of the beast's attempts at biting off her head and chopped down. The spider's shell clashed with her blade, and to her surprise, her blade was turned away. She had used only enough force that it would not morph the metal and she felt the blunt of the force go through enough that two of the spider's legs gave out, but the shell was strong.

The spider hissed again and jumped at her.

Seeing this opening, Arturia ducked down and impaled the spider's underbelly. It was one of the few times she would admit she was thankful for her superhuman speed, because she was able to toss the corpse away from her fast enough that the green ichors that exploded from the wound she made did not splatter all over her head.

The smell of spider's insides almost caused her to gag—it was a sickening smell of rotten flesh mixed with poison. She poked the body away from her with the point of her sword, not wanting to get any closer to it. It was almost as disgusting as Blue Beard.

"Oh, you… you're alright," the dark elf remarked. "Well, what are you waiting for? Cut me down!"

"Why?" Arturia asked. She was prepared to do it anyway, but this was the first mercenary she met down in this crypt who did not immediately attack her. "Why should I?"

The elf replied cockily, "Aside from going passed me is the only way to keep going? Because I know how to open the door! Is that good enough for you?"

"Which door are you talking about?" Arturia asked, genuinely curious.

The elf rolled his eyes at her and replied sarcastically, "What other door is there? The door in the Hall of Stories, to the Sanctum. That's where the treasure is, after all!"

She was not here exactly for treasure, but whatever was inside must be a clue as to why she was here, in this world. At least… it should be. Arturia was satisfied enough with this answer to cut the man down, only to have him run away.

"Ha! Like I'd share with you!" The dark elf-man laughed as he ran through the halls, "I'm going to get all that power for myself!"

Arturia frowned again.

This… something wasn't right…

Her senses all tingled in alarm. There was something here as dangerous as the dragon. If the man went… Arturia had half a heart to just let him die. But if only he knew how to open this door, whatever it is, there is a chance she might need him.

She ran down the halls, chasing after him, only to see him run faster when he heard her footsteps. It was an infuriating chase, but it was a short lived one. The chase was killed by a growl. It was not any growl, it was a growl someone could only make if someone's throat had been completely dried out and preserved… it was a sound of something inhuman.

"Oh—what the hells!" The dark elf yelped when a dried hand shot out of the walls and nearly grabbed him. "Oh, shit! Draugr!"

Just then, the sound of metal bashing and breaking wood echoed through the room they were in. All around her, the tombs where the dead were buried slid or broke open, with the dead crawling out, as if dragged by a puppet master. They all had dark hollows for eyes, and ancient looking armors and weapons. And they all had one purpose: kill.

The intent of killing, even from the dead, was so obvious; Arturia barely had time to push the man aside before a slash of an ancient weapon flew through where his neck used to be. The man yelped, and flipped onto his back and tried to crawl away.

Arturia found herself surrounded by these undead, or Draugr as the black elf called them. She weaved around them easily enough. Though she was cold, tired, and more than a little annoyed, these undead moved slower than any other undead she had faced before. It was as if their hips couldn't bend anymore. However, their swings were still as quick, and from the looks of it, they didn't tire easily.

She chopped and hewed, parting their limbs from their bodies. But even without their arms or with only half a torso, these Draugr still moved with unrelenting strength. They kept attacking, and in this moment of distraction, Arturia was pushed back just enough to allow two other Draugr a moment to rush the dark elf.

They jumped at him, stabbing and slashing. Arturia gritted her teeth and leaped up and over the undead that crowded around her. She flew over their heads quick enough to reach the dark elf, but not before one of them took a slash at the man. He cried even louder for some reason, though Arturia took enough time to note that he wasn't really harmed by that attack. She then turned her attention towards the undead, and took her time cutting them up enough so that they could not get back up again.

She did not use any special techniques and she did not move faster than a human being. But a human could slash very fast; Arturia spared barely five seconds on each Draugr, cutting them up into a dozen pieces each time.

"No, no, no…" The dark elf whimpered when Arturia finally turned her attention towards him.

Arturia blinked, "What's wrong now? Weren't you just going to abandon me for treasure?"

The dark elf grimaced at Arturia's jab, but sighed and let his glaze fall down. He sighed again before saying, "Look, there's… one way into the Sanctum. There's just one, that the Nords used to keep people out. But… it's pretty much worthless now."

Arturia frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Hey, hey, don't look at me like that… shit, that's scary…" The dark elf tried to placate her, "Look, getting in, you need a key. Each of these Nord tombs is supposed to have a different key, and the one for this place is… well, gold."

"…And?" Neither Arturia's frown nor her glaze budged an inch.

The dark elf grimace, "And…" He held up what looked like a golden claw, in two pieces. "That means it's made of gold. And gold is soft. The Draugr cut it in half when you were too slow to save me."

"I see…" Arturia frowned. "But I will continue."

"W-What?" The dark elf gaped.

Arturia did not turn to see his expression. She did not need to. Cowards were common, no matter what the time period and no matter what the world.

"W-Wait! Let me come with you, I might figure this out!" The dark elf scrambled up and ran after her, "Maybe we could use the two pieces together or something…!"

Walking through the Barrow was uneventful.

There were undead and there were traps, but both were so… simple. Arturia felt almost insulted by how easy she stomped over these obstacles. A normal human, or even a large group of normal humans, would probably have trouble, but every obstacle she faced in this dungeon seemed to have a glaring weakness. There were several halls with axes swinging on pendulums, but she just had to cut one side for all of the blades to fall. There were giant doors made of spikes, swinging around with enough force to crush the body, but they were activated by pressure sensitive plates that were so obvious, only the Draugr had problems evading them. And those last two problems canceled each other out.

Then she found herself looking through a long hallway. From behind her, the dark elf muttered, "The Hall of Stories…"

Arturia's grinded her teeth. The pressure on her mind was back, booming and present from all sides. She clutched her head with both hands, but nothing seemed to help. Yet again, whispers came. They were louder now. And the voices came with images too blurred and faded to be seen. Arturia grimaced, but the moment she did so, they presence was gone. She sighed in relief; it was like a weight off of her shoulders every time the compulsions disappeared.

No… that was not quite right. They were not compulsions. They were…

"Hey, boss girl, er… boss lady!" The dark elf called from the other side of the long hallway. He was holding up the golden claw when he said, "Look, the blades were really weird, so they made it so I couldn't put the claw in. Er, sorry…"

Arturia wanted to stop and look around. She wanted to study the hall, to read its walls and learn of the stories they told. She wanted to stop for the moment and take this all in. But she could not.

She stepped up to the door. It was a large circular gate made of stone. There were three circles, one within the other, on the door with patterns of animals carved into them. It was yet another puzzle, but with the claw cut in half, she would be unable to go through even with the puzzle complete. Yet Arturia felt the need to keep going. She wanted to keep going, of her own will now, strangely enough.

Arturia had not tried to manifest her legend within this world, because that would be impossible. Her legend did not exist in this world, after all. But that did not mean she could not gather her prana and focus it into her palms. It was a technique she learned long ago, for protecting her own identity. It was also associated with yet another part of her legend. But she knew she could release the force…

…After all, it is merely a sheath she manifested with her power.

The dark elf looked up and around in surprise.

This hall was so far down into the earth, that it was impossible for fresh air to get in. It was even more impossible for natural wind to seep down into this place. There were no magics that could make winds, and this door was protected from magic. But somehow, he could feel the hairs on his body fluttering. He could feel the furs on his armor ruffled and waving in the air.

The air, it _howled._

It howled with a ferocity greater than even the snowstorm from outside. The wind blew passed, almost lifting him off his feet with pressure alone.

Then it all stopped…

"…_Strike Air!_" Arturia gasped softly, thrusting her fists from under her torso out at the center of the door.

For a fraction of a moment, nothing happen. The air stood still as if time had frozen. The world seemed to mute as all sounds stopped. The sounds of dripping water paused. The smell of dead flesh, stone, moss, and rot all fell to the ground. For that moment, the silence was deafening.

Then air exploded from her palms.

Like a drill thousands of razor thin blades, a hammer made of wind under unimaginably high pressures condensed the air before her. It sucked in everything, but blew it all out, in a burst of power grinded on their ears as the thousands of blades grinded on stone. Immediately, hundreds of web-like cracks formed, before the now hundreds of slabs of stone were flung through the doorway, flying dozens of meters before rolling to a stop.

It was not the exertion that drained Arturia. She realized it was not a drain at all. Like hundreds of voices singing to a crescendo, the world pulsed around her. Everything seemed to beat to a pulse, a rhyme that grew louder and louder.

They were not compulsions. They were images and sounds of a memory. It was a memory of what happened before, of another's footsteps that drew her to this place.

She saw a man, proud and tall.

He stood where she stood, at the foot of a great teacher.

This teacher was no ordinary teacher, for it breathed fire and the world. Yet it would sit and listen, sing songs and create poems with those beneath it. It was a great teacher.

But then the man…

…the man died. And the teacher spoke in a guttural tongue that Arturia shouldn't understand. By all means, she did not. But she did.

_HERE LIES THE GUARDIAN_

_KEEPER OF THE DRAGONSTONE_

_AND A __**FORCE**__ OF ETERNAL_

_RAGE AND DARKNESS_

This was not the tongue of mortals.

Arturia felt the world blur yet again, and once again, she stumbled. The soul within her that was not her own recognize something within these words. It was something old beyond time and meaning, though it stemmed from the weave of the universe itself.

As the dragon rose, roaring in force, the world shook and trembled. The beat grew quicker and quick, coming to a peak where the volume drowned out everything else. Arturia felt herself collapse to her knees as something twisted within her soul. Knowledge and power grew from a seed.

Behind her, a slab of stone slid off a tomb, and a man crawled out. His eyes were hollow, yet filled with rage and darkness. And in a single swipe, he cut down on the dark elf, splitting the mortal into two.

The power within Arturia welled up, flowing through her every fiber of being into her heart. Then grew and grew, washing into her throat. Before she could take control of herself, the primal roar within her was too great to contain. Her lips parted and a bestial growl strum out of her, making the cavern she was in quake, "**FUS**!"

The man of rage and darkness answered, "**FUS RO DAH**!" But his voice was that of a dead man's. The man who was in the memory was no longer what he was. His skin had aged to the point of decay. His proud muscles have atrophied into moss and mold. His blood had dried into dust. And even his soul was no longer his.

When his Voice shouted against hers, he too let loose a Shout that shook creation. Yet his voice was cracked and his throat was dried, too much for him to endure.

And so, his Shout, an answer to the unrelenting wall of force that flew at him, was blown aside. And then he was flung away, utterly crushed by the pure force. And for the first time in many centuries, the man had rest.

Arturia felt physically and emotionally drained, but somehow, she understood. Even if she had only achieved one of the many pieces of the puzzle, this had all been worth it. And within her, the power of the dragon's soul that had been bubbling away began a new course, where it transformed her words into raw power, obliterating anything in her path.

Trudging out of Bleak Falls Barrow took much longer than wading in, Arturia decided. Her muscles were worn out, her mind was tired from a lack of sleep, and there was no supernatural force compelling her to move faster anymore.

As she walked out of the dirty and dank mausoleum, Arturia marveled at the freshness of the air outside. The snowstorm had passed and she could now see the blue skies.

Standing at this peak over looking Skyrim stolen a breath away from her that none of the snowstorm's harsh winds ever could. The tall lines of trees, the mirror-like lakes, and everything else!

From here, she saw the land and its beauty. She stopped, amid a step, taking time to admire the view. The villagers could wait a moment longer, she supposed. It's not as if she had not earned this short respite.

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><p>He groaned, wiggling his nose exaggeratedly with an expression of annoyance. There was an awful, just simply awful, smell—no, a <em>stench<em>—that had spread all over the room. And this was no ordinary room either, for it was his bed room! Or, it was until he willed it otherwise.

He opened his eyes, to see that his clothes, that suit of elegant purple and gold, had turned into… well, cheese. To be sure, he stuck a hand down and rubbed his genitals obscenely. Yes, at least this was all there. He grumbled something or something else before growling, "Yep, it's cheese alright."

And with that, he jumped up and walked into his throne room, while eating a piece of his clothes (which was actually cheese, so it's not really his clothes, or is it?).

One of his beloved swords, whose name he had forgotten looked at him queerly and asked in a regal tone that denoted the blade's background, "My lord! Why are you wearing a wheel of cheese?" That is to say, he spoke with a very French accent. Perhaps he was a sword of Charlemagne's or perhaps he was just a random sword he had picked up, who was to know? Certainly not him!

He stared down at his pants. It wasn't really his pants anymore, since it was made of cheese. It wasn't even in the shape of pants either! It was a giant cheese wheel that covered his extremities. But of course, that's only what it looked like! He smirked and waved his hands into the air majestically, "Why but this is no cheese wheel! It is a potion of fire resistance!"

With that, he chugged the potion, for it was weighing down his inventory space. Even as a Daedric Prince, he could only carry a few hundred thousand pounds!

"Why, oh my!" The sword gasped, not unlike a comment George Takei would have made.

It was then that he realized he was nude. But then he wasn't anymore, because he equipped a pair of pants. It was his favorite pair… well, he would be lying if he said that was true. It was actually an elf's favorite pair: a pair of very tight, black leather pants that seemed to gleam in any light.

"My lord, what are you doing?" The sword asked. Obviously this sword had not been materialized very long. No, he wasn't tracing them, not anymore!

So he replied succinctly, "I am what I am. Now what are you?"

The sword blinked back at him, confused by the question and by the way he strutted around in his leather pants. Or the sword could be confused as to why he suddenly sprouted white hair and his skin grew tanned. Or whatever else… the point was the sword was confused and stared oddly at him while answering with more of a question, "I… I am a sword, my lord?"

"A sword… a sword…" He swayed from side to side. It seems like someone had hidden alcohol in his pants. Or they had hidden alcohol in his cheese wheel. Or was it actually him, who put a bottle of alcohol in his pants, and then changed the pants to look like cheese, while it was actually a potion of fire resistance?

…Or perhaps the potion is alcoholic? He smiled, "A sword is a snake!"

And then the sword was a snake.

The snake hissed up at its lord in surprise, "Ah! A curse of flesh! I have dangly parts!"

"CHIM!" He roared, thrusting another sword through the snake's neck, divorcing its body from its skull in a single slash. Then he added, "Chime! I call and the bell calls!"

The new sword that had materialized in his hands queried, "My lord, whatever do you mean by that?"

"Oh, just that, did he really believe he was made of flesh?" The Daedric Prince responded jovially, "Did he really believe himself a sword?"

The sword tried to stay silent, for he had seen what would happen to swords who questioned the lord. Even crossbow-swords that shot swords with little swords on them suffered his wrath! But the sword was a loyal sword of a loyal knight, so he responded dutifully, "But my lord, if he was neither snake nor sword, then what was he?"

"What indeed!" The Daedric Prince cackled like the Joker. For those of you who don't know, that means he cackled madly. "Do you believe yourself a sword?"

"Why, of course, my lord!" The sword claimed, affronted by its lord's suggestion that it wasn't a sword.

"Then what… do you call yourself?" The lord asked, speaking patiently as if a teacher to a child.

The sword puffed out its pummel like a proud man and stated, "I am the sword of…" Here he said something about something, which the man blocked out. It couldn't have been very important… something about a hard head and a hound from a place called Ulster.

The man shook his head slowly in amusement, reminiscing about some past battle with some man who wore a skin-tight, blue leotard. That man was always horny too.

"Ahem, right, where was I?" The man shook his head and shook his mind out of his thoughts.

The sword replied, "You asked for my name, my lord."

"Ah, yes," the man nodded. "Do you really think yourself a sword? Or are you all just part of a game?"

"A game, my lord?" The sword asked curiously, "What kind of game do you mean?"

"Why a grand game!" The man spread his arms around, dancing madly. Then he settled down and returned to looking like a blind Scotsman with a pimp cane. "A game about kings and demons, and the end of the world! There was a dragon and a… oh, but wait! The dragons are coming back!"

"Are they really, my lord?" The sword asked again, long since used to its lord's swaying mood.

The man stopped and crossed his arms. He looked deep in thought, or perhaps rather serious, when he replied, "Yes, that's something I need to work on. If I follow the script, then this game would be rather droll."

"The game, again, sir?"

"Ah ha!" The man took the blade and jabbed it into a wheel of cheese, and then shot it off a catapult made of swords. As he flew with the blade, he replied, "That reminds me! I don't think we're in a game anymore!"

Through the sword's screams of fright, it asked, "Again with the game, my lord? You have yet to enlighten me on what it is!"

"Oh, but we all used to be but codes, my dear sword!" The man replied, "But now we are no longer thus! We are now merely words on a page… though perhaps we are still in a form of code! How complex is this? How fascinating!"

"My lord, I don't understand," the sword didn't understand.

But it didn't need to. After all, it was just a sword. Or it was just a word, or a concept, or… simply nothing! For the Daedric God of Madness, who realized he was in a story, there was only one road to go. If he wanted to stay, he'll have to become a main character. And to become a main character… he would need to interact with his little Arturia!

"Ah," he laughed as he rode a sword away to Skyrim while sipping on his wine, "This will be even better than that time I duked it out with old man Zelretch. Interlude, end!"

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><p>You'd best review.<p> 


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